


Dealing in Temptation

by ElizabethLeFay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alphard Black - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Ancient Runes, Borgin and Burkes (Harry Potter), Canon Tom Riddle, Cursed necklace, Dark Hermione Granger, Death Eaters, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description, Horcruxes, Knights of Walpurgis, Lestrange Family, Light Angst, Light Sadism, Loyalty, Malfoy Manor, Multiple chapters, Mystery, Orion Black - Freeform, Possessive Tom Riddle, Pureblood Hermione Granger, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Rise of Voldemort, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Tom Riddle - Freeform, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle is a mastermind, Walburga Black - Freeform, hermione granger - Freeform, magic bonding, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 139,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethLeFay/pseuds/ElizabethLeFay
Summary: Tom Riddle has surprised the entire Wizarding world by taking a job at Borgin and Burkes. His intentions fool everyone but Hermione Granger. When a business deal and a cursed necklace causes them to cross paths in 1948, Tom and Hermione find themselves strangers no longer. A Dark Lord ascending, Tom Riddle has no qualms using cunning and the Dark Arts to get what he wants. Temptation has many faces, and Hermione must choose a path to follow in the end.oOo"I once told you that power always wins. There is no good or evil, Hermione. It's a fine line. Do you see that now?"Hermione stared adamantly down to the man writhing and silently screaming at her feet. She twirled her wand carelessly in her fingers as she replied, "I do."Tom, who had summoned a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his hands, smirked and tucked a curl behind her ear."Good."~ This story uses characters from, but is not affiliated with, JK Rowling and the Harry Potter series. Warning: dark themes (some graphic), sexual content and language, and slow-burn. This is also an AU, in which Hermione Granger is a pureblooded witch living in Tom Riddle’s original timeline.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Abraxas Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 341
Kudos: 536





	1. The Sale

When Hermione Granger was in her fifth year at Hogwarts, she had a crush on the Head Boy. Everyone adored Tom Riddle, after all. He was charming, brilliantly intelligent, considerate, and ambitious. The Hogwarts staff raved over his talents, the females fawned over his handsome looks, and the boys worshipped him because everyone else did.

Hermione had always seen past that. She thought the Slytherin was pompous, shallow, and over-glorified, even though she had never explicitly talked to him. Not until that night.

He had found her in the library, which was common for the both of them, and Hermione saw the Head Boy there often. That Friday night, however, she had lost track of time, caught up in a research project that she was doing on the side. It was about house-elf regulation, perhaps - she could not remember now, years later.

The tip of his wand had been lit brightly when he had shoved it into her personal space, surprising her when he emerged from around a bookshelf.

_“Shouldn’t you be in your dormitory, Miss Granger?” spat Tom Riddle, analyzing her with a frown and a raised brow._

_Hermione was frozen, her book clutched to her chest and her legs trembling beneath her on the couch cushions. She had never been in trouble before. Never._

_“Yes sir,” she squeaked, standing to her feet abruptly and smoothing out her skirt. She was surprised he even knew who she was, although she was a prefect, and therefore attended meetings with him._

_A ghost of a smirk curled up the Head Boy’s lips, and Hermione flushed at the realization that she had called him ‘sir’. Her parents had always taught her to display respectful manners to authority figures, especially when she was in trouble._

_“Then what do you think you’re doing in the library after curfew?”_

_Hermione squinted in the light of his wand and he lowered it, putting it out with a flick of his wrist. The moon streaming in from the window behind her was the only source of light in the absence of his wandlight. It cast the corner of the library in shadows, obscuring parts of Riddle’s face in eerie darkness, which seemed to darken his glare and frown even more. Hermione wished that he would light his wand again._

_“I’m sorry,” she breathed out, having no control over her voice under the intimidating stare of his cool blue eyes. “I…I lost track of time researching.”_

_Riddle snatched the book out of her hands and with a flick of his wand sent it whirling back to its designated shelf on the other side of the library._

_“I did not take you for a rule breaker, Miss Granger,” said Riddle coolly, eying her suspiciously._

_“I-I’m not,” Hermione shuddered, wanting to curl in on herself and hide. “I just lost track of time is all.”_

_Riddle hummed, watching her with his arms crossed over a broad chest, his white dress shirt stretching across his biceps. Hermione looked nervously to her shoes._

_“Fifty points from Gryffindor then, for carelessly…losing track of time.”_

_Hermione gaped at him, her nerves melting away as her temper flared. “Fifty? That barely warrants twenty points!”_

_“I can make it seventy if you argue,” snapped Riddle, taking a menacing step towards her._

_“I’m a prefect, not some irresponsible second-year that’s looking to cause trouble,” argued Hermione. Who did he think he was?_ Fifty _points? That was preposterous!_

_Suddenly, in a movement quicker than a snake attacking a mouse, Riddle stepped towards her and grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip._

_“Defy me again, Miss Granger, and you’ll soon realize that I don’t care_ who _you are if you deem your actions do not warrant the consequences.”_

_Hermione trembled in his hold, meeting his glare with one of her own. But she could not bear to hold his gaze so long. His eyes were so cold and so empty and so striking that they made her uncomfortable. He looked at her like he knew everything about her, all of her secrets and all her thoughts. She looked away, to the dark hair that swept off his forehead, every strand perfectly in place as usual. She avoided his glare, allowing her eyes a momentary escape to roam across the sharp angle of his jaw, to his aristocratic nose and full red lips. She figured she lingered on them too long when they curled in another smirk, and blushing, she glared at a bookshelf past his arm._

_What was wrong with her? She was acting like all of the other silly girls at this school that could never take their eyes off of the Head Boy._

_“Shall I escort you to your room, Miss Granger, lest you find another way to get yourself in trouble?” His voice was a deep baritone while remaining cold at the same time. It was as if he tried to keep his vocal chords sounding warm and pleasant, but could not find any emotion within himself to properly fulfill the act. The result was an icy emptiness; it resonated through her and sent chills up her spine._

_“I’m sure I can make it back on my own, thank you very much,” said Hermione defiantly. But Riddle tugged her arm towards him, and she stumbled into his chest with a gasp._

_“I insist,” he said firmly from above her. He never let go of her arm, not even as he dragged her out of the library and into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed in the silent castle, and Hermione wished that it was not so late. It was dark in the corridors, only a few sconces here and there to light the way, and Tom Riddle was, although her Head Boy, an intimidating stranger. She felt, among other things, uneasy as he trapped her in his vice-like hand and dragged her through the halls. Perhaps a prefect, or the Head Girl, was patrolling nearby and could rescue her from this ridiculous situation. Riddle was_ way _out of line, and while she knew that she_ had _broken the rules, he had no right to be this rough with her. She had never let her anger get the best of her when she caught a student out of bed after hours!_

_Hermione stumbled into him when they began ascending the staircase. He glared down at her quickly, his grip tightening around her arm. Hermione, in turn, glared down at his unrelenting hand. He was holding her as if she were a thief and he was a security guard that had just caught her and was escorting her to Azkaban! Her shoulder bumped into his side again when he turned, taking the next flight of stairs. She had a sudden urge to punch him right in his arm, and she glanced to her potential target, regretting it immediately. His muscles were working under his shirt sleeve, stretching and flexing to pull her along. Hermione watched the veins in his forearm, which was exposed due to his rolled sleeves, flare and ripple when his grip tightened. Just another reason to despise him…he’s fit, she thought. Of course, he would be, she rolled her eyes. Her inkling to punch him had turned into a staring contest with his bicep, and she followed the hidden muscle up to his wide shoulder, covered in his gray Hogwarts vest. Pale skin peeked out from the lining, stretching over a slim neck and a bobbing Adam’s apple. Her eyes had just reached the angle of his jaw when it jerked, looking down at her. Hermione looked to the floor before he could notice, but she was sure he had._

_Her breathing was labored by the time they reached Gryffindor tower, either from the stairs or being in such close proximity to him. Probably both._

_He was just intoxicating, and she hated him for it. The way his jaw clenched in anger as he pulled her along, probably annoyed that he had to deal with a student out past curfew on his rounds. Hermione nearly felt guilty for a moment, because she hated dealing with the same situations when she was on duty. But she would have never taken fifty points from the troublemaker for reading in the library!_

_Hermione breathed in, her lips pursing in further annoyance at her current situation. She inhaled the stuffiness of the tower, but also something woodsy. Pulled into him once more as he rounded a corner, she realized that it was him. Of course…he smelled nice too. It must have been his cologne, smelling like sandalwood and pine, possibly, mixed with a unique scent of old parchment and dusty tomes that she figured he picked up from the library. More often then not her own clothes smelled the same due to the amount of time she spent among the dusty stacks. She was attracted to him so suddenly that she loathed herself for it. Attracted to him just like all of the other pathetic witches at this school. Hermione released an_ actual _growl under her breath, berating herself._

_The Fat Lady did not look pleased when Riddle pulled her in front of the portrait hole. Hermione refused to look at her or the Head Boy, instead finding a clump of dirt between the mortar of the stone floor more interesting. Riddle yanked her in front of him before finally releasing her arm. Hermione's opposite hand immediately reached up to soothe the ache._

_“I expect better from you, Miss Granger. As a prefect, a straight ‘O’ student, and the daughter of a famous Potioneer, you should be setting an example for the other children, not breaking the rules.”_

_Hermione hated being reprimanded, and she hated that he had used all three of those things against her. He sounded like he was speaking to her as a child, not a prefect or a sixteen-year-old woman._

_“I know,” grumbled Hermione, flushing again under his scrutiny. She could feel him smirking at her expense even though she could not see him, and he did not make a move to leave despite the conversation clearly being over. Only when she looked up at him, meeting his icy stare, did he nod curtly and turn on his heel, stalking back toward the tower staircase._

_Hermione mumbled the password quickly, stumbling her way into the common room and collapsing on a plush red chair. Her bag dropped with a heavy thud to the floor and she threw her head into the cushions. Finally, she felt like she could breathe again._

That was exactly the opposite of how Hermione felt now, standing in the presence of Tom Riddle in her own home, over three years later. Riddle immediately stood to his feet as she entered her father’s office, and her father did the same, beaming across the room at his daughter.

“Sorry father,” she said, feeling unsteady on her feet. “I thought your meeting was not for another hour.”

Tom Riddle’s eyes were as blank and intense as she remembered them. However, this time she thought they held perhaps a little more emptiness and a little more curiosity as he stared at her. She broke their eye contact, smiling softly at her father.

“No worries! I’m meeting with Mr. Riddle here about some of our family artefacts,” said her father, seemingly as charmed by Riddle as everyone at Hogwarts had been. Everyone except Hermione. Perhaps she had harbored a small crush on the boy, but not for his charm, which she had surely not been witness to the night they met.

“Of course,” said Hermione, walking farther into the room towards the two men. “I heard you were a representative for Borgin and Burke’s, Mr. Riddle. What a…unique way to show off your talents.”

Those blue eyes narrowed at her as she came to stand in front of him, offering her hand.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted with a nod of his head. “Nice to see you again.”

And instead of shaking her hand, he took it by her fingers and raised it to those same lips that she had stared at for months following that night in the library. Hermione tried to compose herself, but she felt her cheeks flushing anyway. Her hand seemed to be on fire as she let it fall back to her side.

“So, what objects are you trying to swindle my father of today, Mr. Riddle?” she asked curtly, popping a hip out as she crossed her arms.

“My goodness, ‘Mione!” her father gasped, embarrassed. “I’m very sorry, Tom. She has always had quite the mouth on her.”

Hermione shot a playful glare at her father but did not feel guilty for her insinuated words of choice. Riddle seemed almost amused, a smirk forming on those full lips.

“I know,” he said, eyeing her with mirth. Hermione caught his eye, the unwelcome joke passing between them. “It’s quite alright, sir. My line of work does not always have the best reputation.”

Hermione forced herself not to roll her eyes at the sympathy-seeking comment and was astounded when her father seemed to give into it. This was the same man that raised her! How was he so charmed by such an obvious façade?

“Not at all, Tom! I’ve heard spectacular things about you and Mr. Burke’s store or else I would not have taken the meeting,” he said, and Hermione shot her father a real glare this time.

“Thank you, sir. Mr. Burke would be pleased to hear such kind sentiments about his store’s most honorable reputation,” replied Riddle, ever the impeccably polite salesman.

Hermione suppressed a deep sigh as she witnessed the conversation between her father and Riddle. Hector Dagworth-Granger offered Riddle his seat once more, resuming the meeting.

“Surely you don’t mind me staying, father?” said Hermione innocently, not intent on leaving the sleazy salesman at her side with her father and their family heirlooms.

“This boring business is no place for a lady, surely,” her father replied with a twinkle in his brown eyes.

“You know I don’t mind it, father,” huffed Hermione. “Plus, I would love to hear how the sales business has increased the intelligence of my _favorite_ Head Boy.”

Riddle smirked openly as she looked down at him, but he did not look to her, his eyes devoted to his viable seller.

“Ah, so that’s why you two seem so familiar with each other,” hummed her father. “Head Boy, aye Tom? I’m not surprised. Wasn’t surprised when ‘Mione got her Head Girl badge either! Both of you have the knack for leadership and ambition, that much is clear. Always told my little girl she should have been in Slytherin, like me.”

Riddle’s smirk grew wider and Hermione suppressed a huff and another roll of her eyes at what was surely to come.

“Slytherin is the best House,” Riddle said wryly. Oh, he _would_.

“A fellow Slytherin! I’m not surprised by that either, m’boy.”

By the subtle smile on Tom’s face, Hermione was sure he thought he had his sale in the bag now.

“Well fine, dear,” continued her father. “If you insist on staying, take a seat,” and he gestured to the seat next to Riddle.

“I’m fine here,” said Hermione, holding her own and standing tall next to Riddle’s chair. She knew she did not intimidate him in the slightest, but she felt more confident standing above him.

“Very well. As we were saying, Tom, there’s few things that I find of little importance in my household. Everything holds history or sentimental value, so you’ll understand why I cannot give up just anything.”

“I understand, sir. Know that Mr. Burke understands that as well, although he does have a few items in mind that he insisted I bring to the table.”

Hermione had to hand it to him, he seemed good at his job. Whereas most salesmen would have made a sales pitch or a specific interest in an item sound pushy, Riddle ventured into it with ease, almost sounding as if he regretted that Mr. Burke put him in such a _difficult_ position. She wanted to roll her eyes a third time but glanced down at him instead.

He sat in her father’s chair impeccably straight and proper, and yet with an air of relaxation that even impressed Hermione. His elbows rested on the arm rests as he leaned into the back of the chair just slightly to seem comfortable. It did not look like a business meeting that balanced on the success of a sale, but two friends sitting down for a conversation. That was an important trait for any door-to-door salesman to have, Hermione thought, as she listened to the easy way he spoke with her father. She watched him smoothe down a pant leg as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. They were both laughing about something now, but Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of the pale skin of his neck, disappearing beneath perfectly pressed robes. The last time she had seen his flawless skin so close, it had been flushed in anger at _her_. She remembered subtly checking him out that night, when he was pulling her along to dump her through the portrait hole fifty House points lighter. It was how her crush had begun, after all. Her eyes had roamed his pale skin, taking in the pull of his muscles and the clench of his jaw. What a _child_ she had been then. She could still admit that he was dangerously beautiful, but any trace of her little crush on him was long gone. Hermione found herself feeling disinclined toward him and his fake charm and outward arrogance, just as she had most of her school career. How could her father not see it?

She could assume it was how he carried himself, how he _charmed_ , although it did not fool her. He looked the part of a respectable salesman, that was for certain. Riddle wore all black, she noticed, except for the white of his dress shirt. It suited him, made him look elegant and professional at the same time while not seeming overdressed for a simple office meeting. His dark brown hair curled near his ears and at the bottom of his neck, she noticed, as her eyes settled on the same angle of his jaw that had caught her eye over three years ago. Then, it was clenching in frustration at her, and now it was tight with concentration. Even though she tried, she was still barely following the conversation, watching his lips move and his long fingers wave in the air as he motioned around animatedly with his hand, mentioning something about a cauldron. He stayed attentive to her father though, letting him speak even when he interrupted and nodding along during her father’s tangents, offering up words like ‘interesting’ and ‘of course’ and ‘you don’t say’. It was subtle way to let the other person know you were still listening, still cared enough to absorb every word. Yes, Tom Riddle was very good at his job, and it did not surprise her. What she did not understand was why the intelligent Head Boy from her fifth year, one of the most brilliant students to ever graduate from Hogwarts, was a simple shop boy. He could have done anything, and most of his peers had always believed that, her included.

“Perhaps you would like to see one of my first journals?”

Hermione was brought back into the conversation at those words, and watched as Riddle nodded eagerly, leaning back into the chair once more. As her father stood and crossed the room to a bookshelf, Riddle looked up at her and smirked. She wasn’t sure if it was because he knew she had been staring, or because he knew it would irk her to get his way. Probably both. Hermione stood taller in response, crossing her arms across the silk bodice of her dress.

Her father returned to his desk, holding out a brown book. Hermione had to tear her eyes away from the way Riddle’s muscles stretched to accommodate him as he leaned forward and reached for the journal.

“It was one my first for documenting my potions research and experiments. Wrote it when I was straight out of Hogwarts, I believe, in 1915!”

“I should have already said how much I admire your work, sir,” piped Riddle, fixing her father with a look of such devout admiration that Hermione _nearly_ believed him. “Your advancements made in Dittany is remarkable. If Mr. Burke was lucky enough to acquire this, I’m afraid I would have to be the first one to read it.”

Hermione scoffed under her breath at Riddle’s attempt to kiss arse, although it seemed to work. Her father beamed and motioned for him to flip through it. She had had enough of this _nonsense_.

“Father, I must insist you do not give away your journals,” she said firmly, stepping up to the side of his desk. “That is your original work, and most of those ideas you never completed. That should be something you keep in your possession.”

Her father guffawed and rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “None of those ideas are dangerous, my dear, and all my creations - all my public creations, shall I say - are legal. Whoever would be lucky enough to purchase the old thing would only benefit from it. I have no use for it anymore, and you’ve read through that one five times, surely, dear. I see no issue with passing it on.”

Hermione's ears rang at her father’s response. Could he not understand that this was exactly what Riddle wanted? Her fellow alumni had molded her father into the perfect naïve seller, she realized with a heavy breath of anger.

“Mr. Burke and I would be delighted to display any of your work in our store, for a fair price, of course,” said Riddle, his voice smooth and persuasive. “Your work is not to be unappreciated or undervalued, sir.”

Hermione glared menacingly at Riddle, who looked at her innocently.

“Well, I appreciate that, Tom. I suppose…” her father began walking back to the bookshelf. “Yes, there are a few more journals I would not mind getting rid of.”

“Father,” cried Hermione, astonished. “I beg you to reconsider Mr. Riddle’s offer. These are treasured items that I will want to pass on to my own children to read some day, just as you have let me! Please take some time to think this through.”

Her father sighed, running an exasperated hand over his forehead and through graying hair, but he seemed to consider her plea at the mention of his future grandchildren. Hermione had hoped pulling that card would do the trick.

“Well…yes, I suppose…”

Hermione withheld a triumphant smile, especially at the cold glare she could feel from Riddle across the desk. She dared not to even look over in his direction.

“I think, Tom, perhaps we should postpone such a decision until a later date,” said her father. Hermione looked up this time to witness Riddle’s reaction, but he was as calm and composed as ever, his blue eyes flickering over them innocently and unperturbed.

“Of course, sir,” Riddle said smoothly, setting his denied potions journal on the desk. “It is no easy feat to part with such memories. Yours should be treasured, just as your daughter said. Borgin and Burkes would be glad to accept any items you deem worthy to display in our store.”

Her father no longer looked confused by his dilemma but was smiling heartily at Riddle once again.

“I do appreciate the offer, m’boy. And I do think I’ll take you up on it in some form. Perhaps - befitting your schedule, of course - you can return next Friday, and we can meet about the matter again?”

Hermione witnessed the subtle hungry glint in Tom’s eyes, but he only smiled a tight-lipped smile and reached for her father’s hand.

“I would be delighted, sir.”

She supposed that gave her enough time to talk her father out of selling Riddle _anything_ , least of all his potions journals. Pleased that she had meddled in the situation, Hermione smirked to herself. Within a second it was wiped away.

“Same time, then. And you shall join me and Hermione for dinner. I won’t take no for an answer!”

Her back stiffened and she witheld the livid look she wanted to shoot at her father. Is he serious? _Dinner?_ She would have to make an excuse, make plans with a friend for the night or come down with a _serious_ cold.

“Then I will not dare to refuse,” smiled Riddle, inclining his head. She _hated_ his smile. It was strange to her. It didn’t meet his eyes and it distorted his features. He looked to her at that very moment, a look of anger in his eyes that was smothered by his smug look and polite persona. Merlin, the man was _made_ of bullshite.

“I’ll call Trinky to escort you out, Tom-”

Hermione stepped forward immediately. “Oh no, father, please let me.”

Her father grinned at her with a pleased look at her manners. “Very well, then. Tom, m’boy, I leave you in good hands.”

To her dismay, the two men shook hands _again_ before she was practically stomping away, Riddle at her heels. She didn’t allow him to catch up before turning towards the staircase.

Riddle’s long strides allowed him to catch up quickly, and she glared up at him, flipping her curls off her shoulder as they descended the stairs. At the bottom, the front door was only a few strides away, and she was not planning on asking if he preferred the Floo. Instead of leading him to the exit, Hermione grabbed the front of Riddle’s robe and dragged him down a different hallway until she was sure they could be in private. To her surprise, he came willingly as if expecting a confrontation, only stumbling slightly at the sudden change in direction. Afraid her father may come downstairs, Hermione pulled him into the nearest room, a closet that held extra linens, towels and toiletries for when they had guests. Shoving Riddle inside, she closed the door quietly behind her as to not disturb her father or any of the House-elves. Riddle turned to her with a bored look on his face, but his eyes told another story. He was furious, but so was she.

“How dare you…” she was so angry she could barely speak. She didn’t want to speak, she realized, she wanted to yell. Wandlessly, she cast a ‘ _Muffliato’_ on the closet, causing Riddle’s dark eyebrows to raise slightly. “H-How dare you try to manipulate my father! You slimy, cunning…horrible man! I won’t let you get away with this today or next week,” she finished with a dramatic huff, crossing her arms.

Riddle was still a safe distance away, but the anger in his eyes made him feel much closer.

“You lost me a sale, Miss Granger, and you think you are the only one with the right to be angry?”

“Angry?” she scoffed. “I’m not angry, Riddle, I am…irate!” she cried, causing his lips to twitch. “You think you can come into my home and try to sway my father into selling something when he is _clearly_ not in the right mind-”

“He seemed to be in the right mind,” Riddle countered, “until you got involved.”

He took a step towards her and Hermione pressed her back against the door, suddenly wishing she had her wand. She would have carried the damn thing around the house all day if she had known her father was having such controversial guests.

“I intervened because I had to.”

“No,” Riddle’s lips curled around the word, “you intervened because you wanted to ruin that opportunity for me.”

“Oh please, I wouldn’t have wanted to do such a thing if I hadn’t witnessed you molding my father into your perfect puppeteer client before my very eyes!”

He took a step closer and she narrowed her eyes challengingly. He was so close that she could smell him, just as she remembered. Sandalwood and pine and parchment. She breathed in deeply.

“Admit it, Miss Granger, you have probably wanted to pull something rebellious like this since I deducted fifty points from you three years ago.”

Hermione sneered at the memory, glaring at the smirk that was pulling up at his lips. He _would_ remember that and use it against her, the slimy snake.

“I can’t imagine why you would still be holding that grudge,” said Riddle, amusement seeping into his tone now. “I must have been wrong in assuming you had a crush on me after that night.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped at his audacity. “All you did that night was anger me so deeply that-”

“That you stared at me during meals in the Great Hall the rest of term? Ah, yes, that must have been because of your _anger_.”

She took a step towards him this time, the tips of her flats and his polished shoes nearly touching. “You have serious nerve accusing me of such a thing in my own home,” said Hermione, pushing her index finger into his broad chest. “Especially after what you just pulled with my father.”

His hand was wrapped around her wrist so fast that she had no time to pull away. Just like that night in the library, he had her in his lethal grip within a second.

“I have every right to accuse you,” he said lowly, his breath fanning across her forehead and she looked up at him in what felt like fear. She tugged against his grip, but he did not relent. “You seem to be reacting to my presence just as you did three years ago, and it does not seem to be completely in anger, Miss Granger.”

His blue eyes lighted in excitement, and possibly still indignance, as he stepped towards her, pressing her back against the door.

“Your cheeks are flushing just the same,” he said, too close for comfort now. “Your eyes are slightly clouded despite the anger that remains. And I do quite like your temper...”

Hermione had no chance to react, her breath only hitching through her nose when suddenly he slammed her wrist against the door, trapping the other in his free and moving it to the left side of her head to join the first. She did not break his stare, though, refusing to give up even as fear, yes it was surely fear, crept up her spine. Who was this man in front of her? Hermione had never fallen for his act at Hogwarts, but she would not have dreamed he would be this…bold or menacing. His presence was suffocating her.

“Although I do hope it will be gone by Friday,” said Riddle, looking away from her. He seemed to be admiring his grip around her trapped wrists as if he was admiring artwork, and it made her shudder in fright and confusing delight.

“I highly doubt that, Mr. Riddle,” she said, her eyes fluttering to his lips while he was not looking. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip and her stomach clenched in response.

His head bent, suddenly, and Hermione could only glimpse the side of his face as she came face to face with his broad shoulder. His breath fluttered against her exposed shoulder, only covered in the short lace sleeves of her light green dress, and she realized what a compromising position they were really in. She could feel his breath against her neck now, and it caused her lashes to flutter, air to catch in her throat. What was he doing?

“I do hope,” he whispered in her ear, cold and unfeeling, “that you will not dare to interfere with my business from now on, Miss Granger.”

“Is that a threat?” she breathed, voice trembling but recognizing his words for their underlying meaning despite the way he was touching her. She gasped when she felt his lips brush the shell of her ear, leaving her with the strange desire to pull away and lean closer all at once. He pushed her into the door, the upturn of his lips all too apparent against her heightened senses.

“Yes,” was all he whispered, before he was pulling away and she could breathe again. She refused to give in to his…charms, or whatever the hell he _thought_ he was getting away with. He was intoxicating, but clearly a force to be reckoned with. His threats held something else behind them entirely; she could feel it in the air around them and in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke with her father, and the way he looked at her.

“It is bold of you, indeed, to threaten me in my own home and lay your hands on me,” snapped Hermione. “I think you’ll find that I will continuously be opposed to this business deal between you and my father, and I will not hesitate to talk him out of it.”

Riddle had the audacity to smirk even wider, his arms crossing over his chest as he looked down at her.

“You are an infuriating witch, who will, I think, soon discover that I always get my way. In the meantime, however, I implore you stay out of mine.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and mirrored his stance, crossing her arms in annoyance. “I’m afraid I must insist the same, then.”

“You contradict yourself, Miss Granger. I did not take you for a hypocrite.”

Hermione stepped towards him this time, her mouth opening in protest before Riddle interrupted.

“If you want me to stay out of your way then you should not have dragged me into this terribly small linen closet. Although I’m sure it has been a dream of yours since fifth year.”

Hermione scoffed, her fingers curling into fists at her side. “You should not make such arrogant claims,” she hissed, practically through clenched teeth. “I’m afraid you mistook my attitude towards you fifth year as something more than-”

“Oh, your attitude that night was as fiery as it is now, I assure you,” said Riddle with a twinge of annoyance and humor. “The incessant staring that followed it is what I am referring to.”

“Perhaps I was in awe at how much your pompous ego had inflated your giant head upon docking fifty points from a Gryffindor prefect,” argued Hermione.

Riddle’s gaze narrowed back to angry once more at her insult. Hermione did not think many people dared to talk to _perfect, charming and intelligent Tom Riddle_ in such an insulting way.

“You should let me out of here, Miss Granger, before I do something I regret,” growled Riddle, his eyes flashing and fingers twitching to reach for his wand.

Hermione raised her eyebrows mockingly, jutting a hip out as she placed her hands on them. “Another threat,” she tutted. “You continue to surprise me, Mr. Riddle.” Warry of his anger, she stepped aside, allowing him his exit.

Riddle’s pursed lips twitched as if to smirk, but his angry mask stayed perfectly in place. He stepped into her space once more, but this time Hermione raised a hand to his chest to keep him from getting closer.

“You will find I’m full of surprises, _Miss Granger_. Until next week then,” he continued, his jaw clenching as she met his gaze. “I bid you a lovely weekend in the meantime.”

His fingers wrapped around her hand, still poised in defense on his chest, and laid a soft kiss across her knuckles. With another intense glance at her, he opened the door and swept away from the closet. Hermione heaved a great sigh, falling back into the shelves in relief. His disappearance released a great tension from her shoulders and from the room. He was suffocating, intoxicating, and clearly a Slytherin through and through.

She was confused, curious and shaken from his touch and his threatening temper, and glad to be rid of him, but it wouldn’t be for long unless she succeeded in talking her father out of a wretched business deal with Tom Riddle.


	2. Dining with the Devil

Hermione trudged into the dining room at dawn Thursday morning, wiping away sleep from her eyes and running a hand through her tangle of curls. She pulled her shawl tighter over her nightgown as she greeted her father good morning. Hector Granger was already sat to breakfast, his cup of tea in one hand and the Daily Prophet in the other. His plate was empty, however, despite the spread of fruits, scrambled eggs and sausages assorted into bowls on the table.

He glanced over the top of his spectacles and the edge of the paper, his brows raising to see Hermione out of bed so early. She usually only joined him for breakfast on the weekends since he got an early start in his lab the remaining five days. Hermione pulled out her chair, groaning at the light that was shining through the room’s satin curtains and bouncing off of the newly polished wood floors. The chandelier above the table was also lit, to her dismay. Wasn’t the sun enough light so early in the morning?

“What brings you to the breakfast table so early, dear?” her father asked as she took her seat, putting down his paper and smiling at her.

Hermione reached for the teapot as a cup, plate and silverware suddenly appeared on the placemat in front of her.

“I just wanted to catch you before you lock yourself in your office for the day, father,” she said, pouring a teacup of the steaming hot liquid.

“And why is that?” he asked, reaching to fill his plate as Hermione began to do the same.

“Can a daughter not wish to talk to her father before he disappears to work for nine hours?” said Hermione, smiling as she spooned some fruit salad onto her plate.

Hector laughed as he scooped scrambled eggs onto his own plate. Hermione passed him the salt and pepper. “It’s just that you never have before, dear, is all I’m… You wouldn’t be making one last attempt to talk me out of that deal with Mr. Riddle, would you?”

He was looking at her over the rim of his spectacles in a stern manner, this time, giving her a look of disapproval and warning that she recognized from her childhood. She stifled a smirk; he knew her too well, it seemed.

“Father…” she began, sighing and accepting the bowl of eggs from his outstretched hands. “I realize that nothing I say can change your mind at this point, but may I still try?”

Her father snorted at her snarky statement, tucking into his breakfast. “You may not,” he said lightly. “I’ve already told you what I plan to sell to Mr. Burke, and it is nothing that you will miss, nor is it anything that should upset you. Whatever this grudge you’re holding against Mr. Riddle, you need to let it go, dear.”

Hermione huffed and stirred the honey dipper into her tea. “I’m not holding a grudge,” she said, irritation bleeding into her tone. “I just do not like him.”

“Why? He’s young, intelligent, passionate and handsome. What’s not to like about him?”

She shook her head at her father’s antics, watching him with hidden amusement as he struggled to spear a grape onto his fork. He looked up at her, his features set seriously and awaiting her answer.

“I don’t know,” she grumbled. And she didn’t, not really. She just did _not_ like him. “He’s arrogant and presumptuous,” she said, thinking of the way he had carried himself around her father last week and then with _her_ in the linen closet.

“I can see the arrogance,” her father agreed with a dip of his head. “But, after those characteristics I just listed, he does have a reason to be. The best Hogwarts had seen in over a century, yes? And he was Head Boy… Shame that he’s on the path he is. Much more potential than a career in sales in Knockturn Alley…”

Hermione thought so too, although she did not say so aloud. She almost brought up her argument about Knockturn Alley again at its mention but refrained. One of the many ways she had spent the week trying to talk her father out of a deal with Riddle was scolding him about selling to a shady store in Knockturn Alley, of all places. She implored him to think of their reputation, the store’s reputation, and what kind of clientele they sold to as well as _what_ items the store sold. She came up with every weak excuse possible, but he only waved her off with talk of ‘fine reputations’ and centuries of business and how he had never had an issue before…

This, however, was the first time he had agreed with her judgement of Tom Riddle. She knew her father did not see the same arrogant persona that she did. Hector saw confidence, but Hermione saw a self-absorbed, egotistical bastard. Again, she refrained from speaking her words of choice; it was not how a _lady_ was to talk at the breakfast table.

But egotism and haughtiness were not all she hated about him. Whatever else it was, she could not put her finger on it let alone voice it to her father. There was something about him that made her uneasy, tense, and wary. Maybe it was simply because she was the only one who did not fall for the façade he fabricated for those around him. Perhaps it was the very idea of his ‘act’ in general - that he went to such lengths to deceive people - that made her feel uncomfortable. He never made it obvious; he was too talented for that, but she could see it. She had seen it at Hogwarts, the look in his eye when he exerted his power as prefect or Head Boy against a troublemaking first year, especially when he had reprimanded _her_ that night. She saw it in prefect meetings, and in Dueling Club with Professor Merrythought. Whatever situation it was, it seemed that he enjoyed wielding authority. He had harbored that same greedy, power-hungry look last week when her father had said he intended to sell one of his journals.

“No matter,” continued her father, “he is a good lad, and I’m happy to do business with him. In fact, I’ve been trading letters with him all week,” he said through a slurp of tea.

“I’m sorry, what?” spluttered Hermione.

“Oh yes, I’m interested in purchasing a rather incredible item from Mr. Burke’s store. I actually have an appointment with Mr. Riddle at eleven to pick it up.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione scowled into her eggs, glaring at her plate of food.

“I intend to set a time with him for dinner tomorrow, also, where I do hope you will behave yourself, Hermione,” her father chastised with a knowing glint in his brown eyes.

“I’m very good at acting the part of a proper witch, as you well know, father - even if it is towards someone I despise.”

“Despise?” he tutted, cutting a sausage link in half. “That’s a bit harsh, no?”

Hermione shrugged, although she knew it was. She barely knew Tom Riddle, after all, even if he did rub her the wrong way. She couldn't help but dislike him for coming near her father and family heirlooms.

“Cut him some slack, darling,” her father continued. “He’s just doing his job.”

Hermione knew it was true, but she _really_ didn’t care.

“I just don’t like how he’s doing it,” she countered. Her father did not question her, tucking into his food in silence for a few minutes. When their plates were scraped clean and Hermione had reached for the Daily Prophet, a house elf popped in to clear their plates.

“You will go to my meeting with Mr. Riddle today,” her father spoke suddenly in a tone of finality. Hermione dropped the paper into her lap, a gaping scowl forming across her features.

“What?” she growled.

“You heard me,” he responded firmly. “The item in Mr. Burke’s shop was actually something I was planning to gift to you. You can pick it up at eleven and invite Mr. Riddle to dinner tomorrow at six.”

“And what if I’m busy today?” she protested, searching for excuses. “What if I have plans to shop with Cedrella?”

“Arcturus Black's daughter? You know what I think of that family, Hermione - plus won’t you then be in Diagon Alley? That’s just around the corner from Borgin and Burke’s, if I recall.”

He was smirking at her wryly and Hermione sneered into her teacup, taking a long drink of the warm liquid. He knew very well that she had no plans whatsoever. How Slytherin of him to think of such a scheme!

“Must I really go, father? Why can’t you? You made the appointment yourself!”

“That I did,” he shrugged, “but I don’t share the same dislike towards Mr. Riddle as you do. I would quite like that to be _gone_ by tomorrow night, lest we be in for a very uncomfortable evening.” It was a subtle threat that Hermione did not miss. She hated disappointing her father, and he knew that. She also knew that he would be most upset if she sullied their reputable name by treating a guest like dirt. She would never dare to act in such a way in public, but she saw nothing wrong with giving Riddle a taste of his own medicine in private.

“Go make amends with Mr. Riddle, so he knows you harbor no animosity towards him from last week. Invite him to dinner, be polite, and pick up your gift. That’s all I’m asking.”

Hermione sighed. She couldn’t promise kind, so she was glad that was not one of his terms. Polite, though, she could do. She was polite last week, wasn’t she? So was Riddle - until they had moved their conversation into private, of course. They seemed to be good at polite, even if it was cold and steeped in falsities.

“Fine, fine. I’ll meet him at eleven…politely,” she added.

Her father seemed pleased with her answer, and luckily, he changed the conversation to a potion theory he was working on for the remainder of breakfast. Hermione was usually very interested in his line of work, but she could barely listen. To her annoyance, she could not stop thinking about what she would wear for her eleven o’clock meeting. Riddle was the embodiment of class and togetherness, and she wanted to put on a display that proved she was nothing less than exactly that.

~

She decided, eventually, on something practical. Recently, she had been intrigued with Muggle culture. She always was, but never especially in Muggle fashion. Cedrella Black was very familiar with the Muggle world, however - an older friend of Hermione’s who had been disowned from the House of Black for associating with ‘blood-traitors’. She was recently engaged to Septimus Weasley, a pure-blooded family who openly associated with Muggleborns. It was through the Weasley’s Muggleborn friends that Cedrella had been introduced to Muggle culture and women’s fashion, and in turn, she had introduced it to Hermione.

The Granger’s were far from blood-prejudiced, but it was not something they spoke about. They were sympathizers of any and all things Muggle, but privately. Hector Dagworth-Granger had a long history with wizards of all sorts in his noble career. He dealt with people of all backgrounds, had even married a half-blood witch. Hermione’s late grandmother, on her mother’s side, had been a Muggleborn. Hermione had, therefore, been taught not to judge on background, blood or family, but character. Largely, the Grangers had always kept talk of such politics out of their lives.

Cedrella had been good for Hermione, though. She satisfied that craving that Hermione had about the Muggle world, a craving that had only been partly fulfilled with books. She sent her clothes, mostly, since Hermione could find any book she wanted about Muggles in a particular, largely unknown bookshop in Kingsway Alley, right around the corner from Madame Malkin’s. Hermione had come to adore Muggle fashion. Ladies wear in the wizarding world was surely evolving, but it was still behind the times. The robes could still be stifling, and most women still wore corsets, although it was not common among every witch now. Hermione had always refused to wear one. She enjoyed airy dresses and flowy blouses and comfortable shoes.

For her meeting with Riddle and stroll in Knockturn Alley, Hermione went with comfortable practicality. Pants, she had discovered, were all the rage among Muggle women in the current decade. She loved them, although she only owned a couple pairs. She _really_ would have to sneak out for a shopping trip to Muggle London sometime.

In the privacy of her bedroom closet, Hermione dressed in an attractive, slim fitting white sweater tucked into high-waisted, navy pleated pants. It was September, after all, and the weather was cooling, the wind growing crisper and the tips of the leaves turning reds and yellows. She slipped on a pair of kitten heels before tucking her hair into a loose chignon. She applied blush and rouge to her lips before curling her lashes, although she was not sure _why_ she did so. She rarely went through such trouble except for dinner parties or galas.

Hermione donned her cloak before checking her appearance. Sighing into the mirror, she could not help but wonder why she was so nervous to see Tom Riddle again. It was most likely how they had left things last time. He had been so strange and made her so uncomfortable in a span of a few minutes in that blasted linen closet. And, Merlin, hadn’t he warned her to stay out of his way? And here she was, about to show up to his workplace! No, she was stronger than this. Much stronger, and she was not about to let him come out on top.

She gulped and pocketed her wand and the pouch of galleons her father had packed for her. With a thick swallow of nerves, Hermione took up a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into her own fireplace. The hearth expanded to accommodate her immediately and she stepped in, directing the network to The Leaky Cauldron before she was swept away in a smog of green flames.

She stumbled ungracefully into the Leaky, which was practically empty an hour before the advancing lunch hour. There was a rather large family with no less than five children, at glance, who were in the corner trying to get their wits about them. They must have made the Floor trip into the pub just before her, and the stressed mother was trying to wrangle two giggling toddlers. Hermione greeted the barman, Tom, a younger man who was at least ten years her senior. When what must have been the father of the large family caught her eye, they exchanged nods and smiles, before Hermione dipped into the courtyard. The archway was already open, and Hermione was immediately greeted by the bustle of Diagon Alley. With a content smile, she weaved through the crowd, wishing she could stop and kill time at Flourish and Blotts or even the Menagerie. Instead, she turned away from the sound of the large crowd and into the darkness of Knockturn Alley.

Hermione immediately raised the hood of her cloak to conceal her face. She was not in the mood to get leered at by dodgy men or the occasional hungry vampire visiting from abroad. She did not stop until she reached Borgin and Burke’s, which looked rather out of place in the suspicious alley. The windows were clean, and the sign was polished, looking inviting above the impressive window display of chained books and trinkets. She wondered if Riddle had made it look so presentable. With a glance around her, the other shops and pubs were sporting dingy and dark windows and broken signs. Hermione stared into the window for a minute, mostly stalling from her meeting with Riddle but also intrigued by the rare and unique items in the shop display. She felt an odd sense of comfort that, despite the fact that Tom Riddle was inside, she was visiting this shop today instead of one of the others. At least it looked intriguing, Hermione thought, glancing from the clean windows of Borgin and Burkes to the shrunken heads hanging in a window display across the street. She shuddered, turning her attention back to the shop in front of her.

In the window, a leather-bound book was chained and bolted into the stand it rested on, its faint cover reading ‘ _The Nightshade Guide to Necromancy’._ Hermione’s brows shot into an arch, having only heard rumors of this very Dark Arts book. How was this legal here? There was tell-tale glass orb sitting on an ornate brass stand, a nod to Divination and crystal balls. A grayish smoke was swirling inside of it, and for a moment Hermione thought she saw her own face form in the smoke. She jerked away, hoping it was just a reflection. Shaking her head, she stepped towards the door and pulled it open, a bell chiming above her. A cloak rack stood to her right when the door shut behind her, and Hermione lowered her hood just as she heard footsteps approaching.

“I was expecting your father, Miss Granger. This is quite the unexpected surprise.”

Hermione looked up to meet Tom Riddle’s curious gaze. He was dressed in similar, or perhaps the same, black robes as last week. He looked professional and smart, his dark hair pushed off his forehead and shining with styling gel, the edges curling naturally.

“I can assure you, Mr. Riddle, it was as much of a surprise for me.”

Riddle hummed and moved to stand behind her. “Can I take your cloak?”

Hermione stiffened but did not answer him as she raised her arms to undo the clasp of her jacquard cloak. Riddle took it off her shoulders with a delicate touch and light pressure that had her tensing further. It fell from her figure and Riddle hung it on the rack.

“I assume you’re here to take care of Mr. Granger’s business?”

“I am,” Hermione confirmed, turning to face him. It made her uncomfortable to have him standing behind her, unable to see him.

“Then follow me,” said Riddle, side-stepping her to walk back down the aisle he appeared from. “It will actually work out quite well that you’re here. The necklace is better when fitted for its wearer, after all.”

“It’s a necklace?” she inquired, staring at his back as he maneuvered around the front desk.

“Your father didn’t tell you?” asked Riddle, reaching under the desk and pulling out a slender black box.

“I only just discovered this morning that you had been…writing each other. He only mentioned he was gifting it to me.”

Riddle’s lips twitched at her annoyed tone. She was still bothered they had been talking to each other without her knowledge, and apparently, she was making that clear to him. Even with her meddling, it seemed Riddle had already secured a completely separate deal with her father. Still, she felt a sense of adoration overcome the bitterness she felt toward her father for going through such lengths to gift her a necklace.

Riddle opened the box with his long, slim fingers, setting the top aside before pulling back the velvet cover to reveal a magnificent piece of jewelry.

“Merlin,” gasped Hermione, leaning over the counter to get a better look. It could only be described as a stunning work of art. The necklace itself was not long, looking as if the pendant would fall higher on her chest than most neck jewelry she owned, almost like a collar. It was a slim silver chain, so thin that she was surprised it could hold the weight of the pendant. That was the real beauty, the pendant. A glorious emerald stone in its natural vertical shape was engrained in the center of a larger rectangular frame, a setting made of beautifully cut diamonds, all of different, smaller sizes.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Riddle, watching her carefully as she hovered over the countertop.

“It’s beautiful. I wonder why…I mean, my father has never given me something like this before. I’m usually spoiled with books, not material items.” Hermione glanced up, alarmed, when Riddle began to chuckle.

“Is a book not a material item?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he gently lifted the necklace from its resting place on a velvet pillow.

“Books offer knowledge, while jewelry or clothes or other material items do not. There is more use for knowledge than material items, is there not? Knowledge lasts, as it is intelligence and the power of the mind itself, while less valuable things eventually disappear. You were my Head Boy, the most intelligent student Hogwarts had seen in nearly two centuries, and were in the library perhaps even more than I, if I recall… Don’t you agree then, Mr. Riddle?”

He was watching her more intently than he ever had, but his lips curled into a polite smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. “I do.”

He handed her the necklace, and Hermione took it from him carefully, gritting her teeth when their fingers brushed. Up close, the pendant was even more stunning.

“Before you suddenly joined our meeting last week, your father had asked about some of the store’s most prized possessions,” said Riddle. “Mr. Burke prided himself on this purchase at the beginning of his career. He bought it off of an older witch, who was apparently dying and the last of her line. It has powers, but they are unknown. Mr. Burke said the witch refused to say, only that the witch who wore it would discover its effects for themselves. Because of its unknown powers, it has been hard to sell…until now.”

Hermione’s interest was piqued, her eyes flickering between Riddle and the heavy pendant in her hand. “Is it dangerous?” she could not help but ask.

Riddle smirked, folding his hands on the counter. “Perhaps. Shall we find out?”

She nodded slowly, watching warily as Riddle walked around the counter to stand behind her once more. He held out his hand for the necklace.

“If it doesn’t fit properly,” he said, the hair by her ear brushing her temple with the force of his breath, “I can adjust the clasp.”

Hermione had no time to respond; she was frozen still as Riddle’s arms suddenly stretched over her head and around her shoulders until she felt his fingers brushing the back of her neck. The fit was perfect, comfortably wrapping around the lower portion of her neck, the pendant falling between the dip in her collarbone. His touch fell away, leaving Hermione to suppress a shiver. She brought her fingers up to brush the stone, enjoying the subtle weight around her neck.

When Riddle made no attempt to move, she turned to him, her eyes scanning the walls of the shop.

“Do you perhaps have a mirror?”

Riddle nodded and stepped behind the counter once more, reaching under to brandish a small hand mirror. He passed it to Hermione who examined the placement of the necklace before handing it back.

“It’s a perfect fit,” she said, thankful that she would not have to spend extra time in the shop for him to make adjustments.

“It is,” said Riddle, his eyes falling to the pendant. “You’ll have to tell me if the object manifests any powers.”

Hermione doubted she would ever put herself in a position to see him again, and she was sure he secretly hoped for the same, but she went along with his polite salesman act anyway. “I will. Perhaps at dinner tomorrow?” she said, unclasping the necklace. “My father asked me to extend the invite for six o’clock.”

Riddle’s lips quirked, watching her with amusement as she lay the necklace back in its box. “I see you could not find a way to get out of dining with me, then. I thought you might.”

Hermione had the urge to snort as she met his chagrined smirk with one of her own. “Trust me, I did try, but my father can easily see through my lies.”

Riddle took over repacking her gift, his smirk growing. “I’m honored you dislike me so much as to go to such great lengths.”

“You should be,” she responded wryly, her own lips curling into a smile at their banter. “It is not often I dislike someone. A rare honor, to be sure.”

“Am I to feel special, then? All of this for fifty lost House points?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but Riddle only raised a challenging brow.

“Perhaps if you just admitted you were being prejudiced and unfair, I’d feel inclined to put the past in the past,” said Hermione, crossing her arms.

“Why do I have a feeling that would still not cure your dislike of me?”

Hermione laughed at the truth behind his words, but his smirk still in place, he seemed to take no offense. “I believe you’re right in that assumption, Mr. Riddle, but I think I’ll keep my other reasons to myself.”

Riddle’s smirk slipped as he wrapped her box up in brown paper. He seemed genuinely annoyed, or perhaps perplexed, that she disliked him so much when he had only truly given her two reasons to: docking her those fifty points back at Hogwarts, and trying to buy out family heirlooms from her father.

“I do hope dinner tomorrow can help in that regard, then,” was all he said, sliding the package over to her. Hermione dropped the bag of galleons between them for Riddle to count.

“Oh, yes, swindling my father you’ve so unorthodoxly charmed out of his prized possessions will definitely help your case,” she said sarcastically.

Riddle’s face was wiped as clean as a slate, now, emotionless except for his pursed lips. Those cool blue eyes glared at her as he poured the bag of money across the counter, and Hermione regretted her sudden, heartless words at his angry expression. She had promised her father that she would play nice, after all.

“Forgive me, Mr. Riddle,” she said bitterly but sounding sincere. The apology left a bad taste in her mouth. “My words were insincere, just as they were last week. I’m overprotective of my father. He’s…all I have.”

Riddle’s features softened in understanding, but Hermione knew better than to believe he was no longer angry with her. He had never seemed like the type to not mind being insulted.

“I understand, Miss Granger. Please know I am just doing my job,” he said stiffly but quietly, sorting the money into the register after it was counted.

“I know,” said Hermione with a pang of guilt. Her father had said the same thing. “You should know that I don’t think you are a…swindler. I actually think you are very good at your job. It takes a lot for my father to give up his possessions. He’s actually quite the hoarder…”

Riddle’s polite smile returned, either at her compliment or joke. “I will treasure that compliment forever, Miss Granger, as I’m sure it is the first and last you will ever give me. Shall we get your cloak?”

Hermione nodded, picking up the gift box and following after Riddle. She looked around the aisle this time, finding it mostly full of books. Hermione stepped over to one in particular, intrigued by the chained leather binding. She ran her fingers down the cover, recognizing the text immediately.

“ _Magick Moste Evile_?” Hermione called over her shoulder. Riddle had not seen her stop but had continued down the aisle. “You really do sell the darkest of items in this store.”

She flipped open the cover, reading through the table of contents just as he reappeared, her cloak draped over his elbow.

“This _is_ Knockturn Alley, Miss Granger,” he said smoothly, coming to stand next to her. “Have you read Godelot’s work?” Riddle asked, a subtle mocking in his tone as if he would never think for a moment that she had.

“Yes, actually,” said Hermione, watching as Riddle’s features became subtly intrigued. “My father had always believed in keeping our home’s library unbiased and well-stocked. My mother, even when she was alive, did not disagree. I was raised to ask questions about magic, not shy away from certain subjects. How can we succeed in not letting the Dark Arts tempt us if we know nothing about it?”

Riddle’s brow raised but he offered her a tight-lipped smile. “I agree with such a reasoning. Knowledge is not dangerous unless we let it become so.”

“Yes,” hummed Hermione, returning his curious smirk. “Knowledge is always good; it is our choices that may be poor. My father never explicitly told me to read Godelot or Bullock’s works, but he subtly encouraged it. We all have a choice to make, I believe, between good and evil,” she shut the tomb, silencing a wail that was beginning to crescendo through the bindings. “How are we supposed to make that choice without knowledge of all that is good and all that is evil?”

“I must say,” said Riddle, handing Hermione her cloak, “I wouldn’t have expected such a liberal outlook from a Gryffindor.”

Hermione through her cloak over her shoulders with a laugh. “Well, my father _was_ a Slytherin.”

“Indeed,” Riddle smirked, watching her intensely as she clasped her cloak around her neck and stowed away her gift in an inside pocket.

“You all - Slytherins, I mean - have a natural interest in the Dark Arts, yes? Or is that just rumor?” she asked with a challenging raise of her groomed eyebrows.

“It is less a ‘natural interest’ and more of a thirst for knowledge, as you said yourself. Perhaps you should have been Slytherin, Miss Granger.”

“The Hat _did_ consider it,” she said wryly, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her pants.

“I am unsurprised,” said Riddle with another light chuckle. “Threatening me in your linen closet last week was indication enough.”

Was he joking with her? He had taken on such a playful tone; Hermione could barely believe she was speaking to the same man that had restricted her - forcefully! - in _said_ linen closet.

“As I recall, you did the same,” Hermione replied with faltering confidence, shaking away thoughts of his strong hands around her wrists, his breath on her bare neck.

“You’ll have to forgive me for that,” said Riddle, bowing his head in remorse. She kept herself from rolling her eyes. “I can get quite…heated when I am threatened myself, especially when it comes to someone meddling in a business deal. I am a poor shop boy, after all, living only off of commission.”

Hermione frowned, but his words did not succeed in invoking too much pity. She knew as well as anyone that went to Hogwarts with him that Riddle could be well on his way to becoming Minister of Magic by now, and yet he resorted to working in Knockturn Alley. The familiar uneasiness returned whenever she thought about Riddle and his strange occupation. She couldn’t help but feel that something did not add up, especially when she would notice how expensive his robes were, or the pure gold setting of the ring he wore on his right hand. How could he afford either item on a commission salary at Borgin and Burke’s?

“I am just as defensive and protective, Mr. Riddle,” said Hermione. “As I have already said, my actions were also out of line when I took such liberties to protect my father against the sale.”

Riddle shook his head firmly, still frowning and looking reproachful with himself. “It still does not excuse my actions. I tend to get…physical when I am threatened.”

Hermione swallowed thickly at his acknowledgement of the way he had handled her last week. Her eyes widened when, suddenly, he stepped closer to her.

“It makes me feel in control or…powerful. Do you understand?”

Alarm bells were ringing in her head at his words and their close proximity.

“I do, Mr. Riddle,” she said firmly. “A natural feeling or inclination, I would think, when overpowering someone in a…” _linen closet_ , she finished in her head but refrained. She was just rambling now, afraid of the direction he had turned their conversation. “I er, I should go. Another errand to run for my father, you see…” she said, stepping away from him.

Riddle’s features were suddenly wiped clean of the dark and calculating look he had just bestowed on her. His polite salesman act was back, and Hermione blinked at him in disbelief. _Something did not add up, indeed_.

“Of course, Miss Granger. Until tomorrow then?”

Hermione side-stepped him before he could even think of kissing her hand or walking her out.

“Yes, yes,” she called over his shoulder, walking towards the door at a brisk pace from the feeling of his stare following her. “Should be a fun evening.” She turned back to him once she had reached the door. He was standing at the end of the aisle but approached her no further. Nodding firmly, she added, “Thank you for your assistance,” before throwing her shoulder into the door to open it.

She let it slam shut behind her, breathing uneasily in the crisp air of the empty street. Hermione pulled up her hood, her mind racing over the events of her meeting with Tom Riddle as she retreated back towards Diagon Alley.

oOo

Hermione spent most of Friday either pacing in her bedroom or distracting herself with chores. She rose earlier than normal and stared at her ceiling for at least half an hour before she dragged herself out of bed. She read on her balcony, curled up in a blanket, until her personal house elf brought her morning tea. She retained none of the words. Breakfast came and went, which she took alone in her room, and she hardly ate three bites. She tended to the garden before lunch, but again, she could barely eat a plateful. Her mind was eating away at her, her nerves on edge about the impending dinner with Tom Riddle. She could not get her mind off of him.

The man confused her more than anything else ever had - even more than Gillywig’s Law of Magical Theorizing in Spell Dynamics, and the fool contradicted himself more than once in that bloody article!

Riddle was a theory in itself, or a mystery, rather. Either way, Hermione could not figure him out, even as she thought of him constantly throughout the day. He intrigued her and frightened her more than anyone she had ever met - and she had met bloody Septimus Malfoy! Abraxas’s father reeked of intimidation and cunning and was often curt every time she had been to Malfoy Manor with her friends. Since she was a little girl, the man had frightened her. But at least Mr. Malfoy was not a puzzle. He was a mean and arrogant man that could give such a cold shoulder, one could grow an icicle. Riddle, on the other hand, was just as cold, just as frightening, but at the same time a strange mixture of polite and flirtatious.

It had taken her until two o’clock in the morning to deduce that Riddle had flirted with her on more than one occasion now. First, in that stupid linen closet that she regretted dragging him into. At the beginning of that conversation, both of them had been equally led by their anger at one another. But then, it had turned into something…else, something more. She still remembered the way Riddle had taken her wrists into his strong grip when she had foolishly poked him in the chest during her infuriated ranting. She remembered how he had pressed her against the door, pinning her wrists against the wood while he fumed above her. But he had not just been upset with her, had he? He had toyed with her; she saw that now.

_“You seem to be reacting to my presence just as you did three years ago, and it does not seem to be completely in anger, Miss Granger,”_ he had said. That had stuck with her this past week, Riddle shamelessly pointing out her weakness. She could not really call her attraction to him a weakness. Every witch was attracted to Tom Riddle, and they would be blind not to be. It was only a weakness if she showed him. Apparently, she had that night, however subtly - and damn him, but he recognized it for what it was and mocked her for her childhood crush on him.

She was not ashamed to be attracted to him, but she was mad that he probably knew it. His looks had gotten him far in Hogwarts, she could assume. She wasn’t stupid. Even then, she knew he used his genes as a part of his _perfect_ student and Head Boy act. It worked with everyone, because no one but her and maybe a couple teachers seemed to recognize it. He _knew_ he was devilishly handsome, the bastard.

_“I do quite like your temper, Miss Granger.”_

She remembered that too, especially when his eyes had clouded over with…pride, perhaps, at seeing her so delicately and helplessly trapped before him. When she thought of that moment, she could almost feel his breath on her shoulder, her neck, his fingers brushing against her hair before he had suddenly pulled away. She hated him for doing that to her, especially because it was completely unprecedented for him to touch her at all.

But she hated herself, mostly, for letting it affect her, for even thinking back on the memory.

Hermione groaned and threw her head against the back of the tub with a dull thud. Her mind traveled to yesterday, when Riddle had been nothing but polite and interesting. Their conversation had flowed fairly easy, especially when they had shared their knowledge of academia. She tried to forget, again, the feeling of his fingers brushing her neck when he had adjusted the emerald necklace. It was better to focus on their conversation about books and knowledge, if she must think about him at all.

But then he had turned so dark, so strange, at the end of their meeting. He had, to her surprise, apologized for his own actions in the linen closet, but the way he had talked made it sound like he did not regret them at all.

_It makes me feel in control or…powerful. Do you understand?_

Like hell, she did. What perplexed her even more was that she was not extremely angry about the way he had touched her. He had no right, and it disturbed her, but she was not mad. Luckily, though, he had kept his distance yesterday. Why then, could she not stop thinking about the feel of his hands?

As Hermione sat pruning in the bath, she wanted to strangle him with those very hands of his. He frustrated her to no end. She hoped - no, sincerely desired - that she would never have to see him again after tonight.

With that idea brightening her spirits slightly, Hermione drained her bath and stepped out of its soapy warmth. Her house elf, Lolpey, immediately apparated in with a towel and a robe. In the hour before dinner, she sat impatiently at her vanity while the elf worked its magic. Her hair was dried into its natural curly state, but the frizz was diminished in minutes as the elf applied several products. More charms and heat were applied, and the tighter ringlets of her curls lengthened into softer waves down her back. One side was clipped back with a pearlescent pin that had once belonged to her mother.

Pink rouge was applied to Hermione’s cheeks and a darker color to her lips. She did her eye makeup on her own - something Lolpey had hated at first, but Hermione disliked other people putting products or their fingers near her eyes. She applied a glossy cream to her eyelids and topped them with a thin black liner that made her eyes seem smaller but more serene and daring. A thin coat of mascara finished the look, one that Hermione was quite proud of. She normally never wore so much makeup, only to galas or fancy dinners. She was not sure if Riddle qualified as a fancy dinner, but she felt confident with what she saw in the mirror, and she needed all of the confidence she could get tonight.

Lolpey called to her frantically from her closet as she apparated back into the room.

“Mr. Riddle is here, Young Miss! Lolpey should be getting you dressed now!”

Hermione applied her balms and lotions and perfumes quickly before meeting Lolpey in her closet. Her dress was hanging on the manikin stand, freshly steamed. She slipped into it with haste, her heart racing with the knowledge that Riddle was once again in her house - only this time she was aware of it.

The dress was a light and silk material, her favorite kind to wear because of its airy comfort. This one was a beautiful shade of light green, an ankle length evening gown with a modest plunging neckline and long sleeves that snapped at her wrists but puffed and flowed as if they were wings instead of the usual tight sleeves of most dresses. There was lovely embellishment at the waist that made the gown look more elegant and less bohemian, but Hermione adored the movement of the dress. She slipped into white kitten heels that could not even be seen below the flowing fabrics of the dress. She could go barefoot, and her father and Riddle would never know. The idea made her giggle as Lolpey finished buttoning up the pearls on the back and tying the sash around her middle. Then, the elf was pushing her out of the closet and towards the door of her bedroom.

“Oh wait!” she cried, turning and dashing back to the black box on her vanity. She took out her newly gifted emerald necklace and clasped it around her neck, letting the heavy pendant fall into the crevice of her collar bone. Hermione did not even have time to grab her wand before Lolpey was ushering her out of her bedroom.

“Master and Mr. Riddle are being in the parlor, Young Miss,” said Lolpey, leading her down the hallway at a brisk pace.

“Call me Hermione, Lolpey, for Merlin’s sake,” she said with a fond smile, shaking her head. “What’s for dinner?”

“Lolpey has being calling Young Miss ‘young miss’ since she was being born!”

“But I’m twenty now,” protested Hermione. This was an argument she never won, but it was fun to banter with the old elf who had changed her diapers and brought her her morning tea for as long as she could remember. 

“Young Miss been ‘young miss’ to Lolpey no matter her age. And if Young Miss really cannot wait, then Master has ordered a French menu for dinner. But since Lolpey has been helping Young Miss get ready, Lolpey is not knowing what the kitchen elves cooked.”

Hermione suppressed a giggle as the agitated elf descended the staircase, nearly tripping on her little apron.

“Thank you for helping me, Lolpey. Now go rest! I can find the parlor quite well on my own.”

The sweet elf bowed deeply before disapparating away, hopefully to her chambers to lie down. When Hermione reached the bottom of the stairs, she could hear low voices coming from the open parlor doors. She took a deep breath and schooled her features into polite indifference, smoothing down her dress before advancing towards the voices. Her father boomed a deep laugh and she heard a familiar baritone chuckle from Riddle. Her spine stiffened with a shiver and she felt her cheeks warming.

Ignoring a moment of self-loathing for her reaction to Riddle before even laying eyes on him, Hermione rounded the corner and entered into the parlor. Both men were sitting in armchairs in front of the fireplace but stood immediately upon her entrance.

Her cheeks, to her dismay, warmed further. Riddle looked immaculate. He was in something completely different from the dress robes she had seen him wear at work. Instead of outer robes, he was simply wearing a fitted pair of dark gray pants and a matching vest. Underneath was a black dress shirt and tie that made him look even paler than normal. His flawless skin was a stark contrast to the darker theme of his clothes, and especially his dark hair. His eyes were as calculating as ever as she approached them, kissing her father on the cheek first before turning to Riddle.

With a swift move, his hands took up one of hers with a gentle touch. This time, she focused on the feel of his lips as he brushed a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger. You look lovely this evening.”

Hermione swallowed thickly at his outspoken compliment. She had not missed the way his eyes had roamed when she entered the parlor, nor did she miss the way they dipped to her necklace now.

“The pleasure is all mine, as usual, Mr. Riddle.”

She refrained from returning his compliment, although she did so in her head, for he looked very handsome.

“Tom and I were just discussing your gift, my dear,” said Hector Granger, offering his arm to his daughter. “It looks lovely matched with your gown.”

“Thank you again, father,” said Hermione. “Mr. Riddle said it has unknown magical properties, of which I admit I have not discovered yet. I only just put it on, though.”

“Yes,” said her father, “Tom was telling me the same thing. We’re all intrigued to discover what that is, although Mr. Burke and Tom assured it was nothing dangerous.”

Before anyone could respond, Trinky, the house elf that cooked and tended to Hector, hobbled into the parlor with his tiny head already bowed low. “Dinner is served in the dining room, Master!”

“Thank you, Trinky. Shall we, Mr. Riddle?”

Hector Granger led Hermione out by their linked arms while Riddle trailed silently behind them. Across the hall, the dining room had been thoroughly cleaned and decorated pristinely. The table was set with fine china and some of their nicest placemats. Hermione made her way to the right side of her father’s chair, who always sat at the head of the table. He helped her into her seat as Riddle sat down across from her. As soon as her father sat down, the candles on the table lit themselves, allowing Hermione to admire the centerpiece for a moment before bread appeared on the table and their glasses filled with water and red wine.

“I hope you like French cuisine, Tom,” said Hector with a smile, folding his napkin in his lap.

“I have had few opportunities to try it but when I’ve dined with the Malfoys,” said Riddle.

“Ah, good! You know the Malfoys?” beamed Hector before sipping his wine. He hummed in delight and Hermione followed his lead.

“Abraxas is a good friend of mine,” replied Riddle simply.

“Oh, but of course! You would have been in Slytherin together. Hermione and Abraxas are quite good friends, aren’t you my dear?”

Two pairs of eyes turned to her and Hermione swallowed a mouthful of wine quickly. “Abraxas has always been kind to me,” she said. “We were practically raised together, after all.”

“It’s true,” echoed her father. “Septimus and I used to work closely together - hard man to be friends with, mind you - but the children were practically raised together from their toddler to Abraxas’s Hogwarts years.”

“It’s true,” said Hermione, glancing at Tom. “We have a close group of friends that often visit Malfoy Manor. I’m surprised, then, that I have never seen you there, Mr. Riddle.”

Riddle smiled politely over his wine glass, swirling the liquid delicately. “Abraxas has many friends that I don’t associate with. He is often around two groups of people, of which only one I fit into. I’m not the…socialite that Abraxas tends to be.”

Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about. Abraxas did hang around two different groups of people. There were his close friends and socialites, like Hermione and Victoria Selwyn, Alfyn Lestrange, and Eleanor Greengrass. They were all good friends and had great fun together. Abraxas had always been the life of the party, and Hermione had always been overly fond of him. But Abraxas also drifted to a different type of people, one that she had recognized in those early Hogwarts days. Alfyn went with him, which surprised Hermione, since he seemed just as fun-loving as Abraxas. Tom Riddle had always seemed to be the ‘Head Boy’ of that group as well, which consisted of several other boys that Hermione had never been fond of during her Hogwarts years. Aveus Nott, Victor Rosier and Lionel Mulciber were the bullies that gave Slytherin such a bad name. As a pureblood, they had never picked on Hermione, but as a fellow student and a prefect, she had noticed them even picking on the half-bloods with a known Muggleborn parent. Despite the pureblood culture she had been raised in - and some of the Sacred Twenty-Eight she had been raised around - Hermione knew how wrong their behavior was. Her parents had instilled that in her from birth, and she had equal respect for anyone with magical blood, pureblood or not.

“The Malfoys can indeed be coined socialites,” chuckled Hector. “But I respect that family in many ways. Abraxas has been raised a good lad.”

Hermione could not help but agree. Septimus Malfoy was extremely different from his wife, who had raised Abraxas to respect others openly to uphold the Malfoy name. While she knew none of the Malfoys were particularly fond of the Muggles, she had never heard Abraxas speak a word against Muggleborns. Mr. Malfoy was a different story, but Hermione could respect his son’s gentler nature and careful tongue. Abraxas was too smart and too carefree to act in such a way, although she did not know where his heart really stood in the matter. It was a conversation that she and Abraxas had never had, maybe never thought to have as purebloods. With their other friends, it was also an unspoken topic. They kept politics out of everything that they did together, and Hermione enjoyed that. From experience, she knew that the majority of her friends did not agree with her politics anyway, so she kept the subject largely between she and her father.

Hermione and Abraxas Malfoy had grown apart slightly at Hogwarts, especially in his later years when he drifted singularly towards _that_ group of Slytherin boys - or from what it often looked like, _Riddle’s_ group of Slytherin boys. Only in her seventh year, after Abraxas had already graduated, did they become close again, often meeting at the manor to enjoy each other’s company, or in Diagon Alley and Malfoy or Lestrange Manor to enjoy the company of Alfyn and the other girls.

“For the longest time, Catriona and Septimus and I have expected Abraxas to court my Hermione, here.”

Hermione’s eyes shot to her father in disbelief at his sudden exclamation and she almost dropped the slice of baguette she was spreading with cheese. She opened her mouth to protest when Riddle’s cold voice cut across the table,

“Is that so?” he said, his eyes as hard as his voice. Hermione swallowed as she met his heated stare, feeling as if she was melting under its fiery glint.

“Oh, yes! They were nearly inseparable before Hogwarts, and it seems to be that way again now that they have both graduated. Weren’t you there last week, my dear?”

Hermione glared at her father in contempt for bringing up such a subject in front of Riddle. “That was nearly two weeks ago, father. And I can assure you, Abraxas has no intentions of courting me.”

Her father gave her a knowing smile that barely hid his frown. He had often spoken to her of a match with Abraxas in the past - but the gall of him to bring it up in front of a guest! Why had she become the center of the Malfoy topic so suddenly? She dared to glance back to Riddle, who was still smothering her with a glare, his lips twitching.

_Circe_ , he was mad at her already and they had not even started the first course!

She shook her head at her plate, suppressing a loud groan.

“Well, perhaps you will see Tom around Malfoy Manor sometime!” said Hector Granger as if nothing had happened.

“Perhaps,” Hermione ground out between her teeth, her cheeks flaming red.

Luckily, Trinky and two other house elves arrived with their soup course, levitating the bowls carefully in front of them and removing their bread plates.

“Ah, my favorite! Potage Parmentier. Have you had it before?” asked Hector, looking at Riddle who schooled him with an interested twist of his handsome features.

“I don’t believe so, sir. What is it?”

“Potatoes and leeks. Sounds strange, I know, but quite tasty!”

Over their soup course, conversation dissolved to Riddle’s job. Hector asked how he had scored the job at Borgin and Burke’s and what made him decide such a path. Riddle claimed it was his dislike for the Ministry and his fondness for old and unwanted magical items. Hector then jumped into a long rant about the Ministry’s ill-judgement on many issues, to which she and Riddle often piped in their agreement. The Ministry had become an ancient establishment with ancient wizards and witches working in the top positions, and the institution was failing to evolve. Many laws needed to be written to accommodate their expanding world as well as the rapidly changing Muggle world, which was decades ahead of them. With the lack of a modern-day Ministry, however, and as a woman in 1948, there were not many opportunities outside of a desk job. She had already applied to two Minisitry jobs in wizarding England and had been rejected despite her superb transcript and resume. She had aced NEWT exams for classes she had not even taken, for Godric’s sake!

By the time their salad course arrived, a simple mix of fresh greens with goat cheese, radishes, and walnuts, Hector was discussing all of the items he had bought from Borgin and Burke’s over the decades. Most were potions books that he had decided to purchase from Mr. Burke because the previous owners and potioneers had written their own notes in them. He found that fascinating, apparently, and enjoyed the thrill of trying their ‘recipes’ - no matter how dangerous it could be.

Riddle was absorbed in the conversation, more so than Hermione who ate quietly, unable to forget how angry the man across her had looked at the beginning of dinner during the topic of Abraxas Malfoy. She enjoyed the conversation, however, intrigued by the easy way Riddle spoke with her father, laughed, and waved his hands about when he was speaking of his own adventures as a salesman. His dress shirt was beginning to wrinkle with how much his vest was moving with his actions, and she found it amusing and, to her annoyance, charming that he became so animated when speaking passionately of his job.

She became nearly transfixed when he laid down his fork, allowing Trinky to take away his empty salad plate, and unbuttoned his cufflinks. Hermione barely noticed the main course that was placed in front of her, watching the way he folded and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

“This looks delicious,” commented Riddle, pulling Hermione away from her immature staring. She glanced up at him to see him already watching her with a mocking smirk. She looked away quickly, reaching for her third glass of wine. The elven alcohol was already working its magic, indeed. She had grown warm with a flush equally from the wine and watching Riddle interact with her father.

“Ratatouille and steak au poivre! Hermione’s favorite for as long as I can remember,” said Hector, cutting a creamy piece of steak and spearing it with a piece of zucchini before popping it into his mouth.

“This meal is divine, sir. Thank you again for inviting me,” said Riddle after swallowing his first bite.

Hermione tried to focus on her own meal as the conversation continued, but she could barely concentrate. She was growing quite full already, which was surprising since she had eaten so little all day. There was an uncomfortable pressure in her chest, her heart had started racing, and she was unsure if it was from Riddle’s presence or anxiety. Perhaps the two went together? Most likely.

As the main course progressed, it got worse, and Hermione was gulping down water when she realized both Riddle and her father were staring at her, her father looking expectant.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” she gasped, clearing her throat and setting her water glass down.

Her father chuckled as if she humored him and Riddle smiled politely. “I asked what you have been doing since graduating, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Oh,” said Hermione, trying to ignore a sudden wave of nausea. “I haven’t had much luck in the job department, so mostly I have been working on my own projects at home or helping father in his lab.”

“What sort of project?” asked Riddle, seeming intrigued.

“Uh - ancient runes. I’ve always been fascinated with runic magic and finally conquered it four months ago. I’m working to create my own spell, just for practice, but it’s taking much more research and difficulty than I imagined. Mostly I’m interested it applying runes to healing magic.”

If Riddle ever showed any _real_ emotions, he was letting a few slip out now. He looked genuinely curious and impressed, if she was reading him correctly.

“Runic magic is very dangerous,” he said with a raised brow.

“Yes, it is,” she said, holding back a grimace as her nausea turned into a painful pounding behind her temples. “Father hates it.”

Riddle turned his attention on Hector Granger who began stressing about how much he fretted over Hermione performing and studying such magic, although he admitted he had no room to reprimand her as long as he was mixing potentially dangerous ingredients together in his lab all day. He said something about how he was unsurprised by Hermione’s adeptness at ancient runes from the results of her OWL and NEWT exams. She tuned out his fatherly bragging as the pain in her chest reached such a level that she could not suppress the grimace that pinched her features. Her headache had increased tenfold in mere seconds and felt more like a migraine now. She was beginning to feel quite frightened.

Despite the pain she was suddenly feeling, it felt vaguely familiar to the first time she had made a positive advance with her project. Runic magic was different because one had to be _extremely_ in touch with their magic. One had to understand the very essence of their inner magic to be able to perform any spell at all. The first time Hermione had connected with her magical spirit - or soul, as some called it - it had been just as painful as this, and then wonderful all at once. She had felt more powerful than ever before when she had bonded with her magic that first time, and it felt just like this. Except this time, Hermione had not performed a complicated and dangerous blood spell, nor had she meditated for nearly an hour to achieve such a feat, as she had done at the beginning of her project nearly nine months ago.

For a moment, Hermione felt confused and scared, and she was just about to speak up and excuse herself to her quarters when the pain disappeared, replaced with a feeling of utter peace, relaxation, and power.

She gasped at the feeling, dropping the fork that had been squeezed into her vicelike grip onto her plate. It clattered loudly onto the China. Riddle and her father turned to her in alarm. She looked up at them in embarrassment only to be met with Riddle’s calculating stare. She could feel her very magic humming around her and it was satisfying and overwhelming at the same time. She felt elated, peaceful, _electric_.

“Are you alright, my dear?” asked her father. Hermione nodded in response absentmindedly, unable to tear her eyes away from Riddle. His eyes were openly flicking all around her, above her head, resting on her face, her chest and off to her side. It was as if he could see and feel her magic affecting her. If she did not know any better, she would claim he was looking at her with a hungry glint in those cold blue eyes, but she doubted Tom Riddle would ever express such an obvious and uncaged emotion. Could he feel a small part of what she was feeling? Was he a strong enough wizard to be so in tune with his own magic that he could feel others as well? She had only read of such magic in a biography Merlin himself wrote during the Middle Ages. It was impossible, even if Tom Riddle _was_ brilliant. But then why was he looking at her as if he was suddenly seeing her anew?

“I’m fine, father. I just became a little lightheaded suddenly.”

“Ah, too much wine, I’m sure,” Hector laughed. “Hermione’s taken a liking to many different kinds of alcohol, you see, Tom, since she became of age.”

“Father!” Hermione gasped, amused and mortified by his words at the same time. She broke into a giggle, however, at the teasing smile on his face. “I enjoy a glass of wine as much as _you_ enjoy a _nightly_ nightcap.”

Her father boomed a laugh, slamming his palm on the tabletop good-naturedly before explaining to Riddle that he had an old bottle of mead waiting for them in the parlor after they finished their dinner. Hermione returned quietly to her meal while the men began to talk once more. She could not ignore the way Riddle kept glancing over to her. She was practically humming with magic and she was dying to run to her chambers and grab her wand and cast a thousand spells.

The dessert course came with a discussion about travel. With the arrival of French chocolate mousse with fresh raspberries, Hector dove into a story about the first time he discovered the decadent dessert.

“My late wife and I honeymooned in France. We had ventured into the Muggle part of the city - she wanted to see Notre Dame…always had a thing for cathedrals, you see. Now don’t get me wrong, Tom, French wizards and witches can cook their arses off just as well as the Muggles, but that Muggle patisserie in the sixth arrondissement had the best chocolate mousse I have ever tasted.”

Riddle laughed along with her father before he was asked if he had the French style of the dessert before tonight.

“I have,” confirmed Riddle. “I enjoyed a lengthy stay at the Malfoy estate in southern France this summer, actually. I believe some of your friends may have been there with me, Miss Granger. There was a Miss Greengrass and Selwyn, if I remember correctly.”

Hermione knew exactly what holiday Riddle was talking about. She looked down at her plate quietly instead of answering.

“Ah, yes. Young Abraxas invited Hermione along to that as well,” said her father.

He had, but she would have been foolish to get excited about his offer. She knew before he had even finished inviting her in May that her father would never allow her to go.

“She was unable to go, however,” continued her father. “We are overly cautious about travel, you see, for reasons I won’t bore you with.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at her plate, grinding her teeth. _Reasons he wouldn’t bore Riddle with?_ That was a new excuse for his paranoia.

“Where have you traveled, Mr. Riddle?” she asked, desperate to change the subject. Riddle was looking at her strangely again, somewhat curiously. She would be, too, if she had just heard what her father mysteriously said. He was learning much more about her tonight than she would have ever wanted.

“I’ve been lucky to travel a decent amount,” he said. Immediately, Hermione felt a pang of jealousy. “Other than the northern border for school, I visited Ireland last summer as well as Germany and Portugal. This year, France and Czechoslovakia. I’m currently planning a trip to Albania in the spring.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” sighed Hermione dreamily. “All of those places, really, but I hear Albania is beautiful. I’m fascinated with Venetian culture, you see, and I’ve read so much about Greek mythology I could not pass up the opportunity to be so close to Athens.”

She and Riddle shared a look, hers sad and his thoughtful.

“It sounds like you’ve done a lot of traveling in the last two years, Tom,” said her father into the tense silence of the room. “Why wait so late?”

Riddle looked decidedly uncomfortable now. “I never had the chance to until I graduated. I did not have the…finances.”

For the first time ever, Hermione felt a pang of guilt for Tom Riddle. The majority of people in the wizarding world were not rich, but no one ever looked as ashamed and embarrassed about it as Riddle did now. His upper lip was curling in a sneer as he stared down into his lap, almost as if he was angry with himself. It made Hermione even more curious as to why he chose the career path he did. If he was short on money, why not take a steady job with the Ministry? Did he really hate the government that much?

“Travel is expensive, no doubt about that,” Hector said lightly. “Did your parents not travel with you as a young lad?”

Hermione thought it was an innocent question, but by the look in Riddle’s eyes, she knew it was far from it. He remained emotionally indifferent to her father, though, but she could see him clearly.

“I was raised in an orphanage actually, sir,” said Riddle curtly.

Another pang of guilt. My, she was learning a lot about Riddle tonight, wasn’t she? It seemed, thanks to her father, they were both learning much more about each other.

“You don’t say?” continued her father, oblivious to Riddle’s guarded expression. “I am sorry to hear that Tom, but you know, my father actually started _Littleton’s Magical Orphanage_.”

By the blank look on Riddle’s face, he had never heard of the place. His gaze flickered to her once more, his eyes full of self-loathing and haunted memories and hatred. Realization dawned on Hermione’s face and she opened her mouth to stop her father and steer the conversation in another direction when he spoke,

“A _Muggle_ orphanage, sir,” said Riddle stiffly, setting his spoon aside as if was too angry to eat another bite of his chocolate mousse.

Suddenly, Hermione’s magic lurched, causing her to grip her dress in tight fists under the table. It seemed to curl in on itself, before it felt like it was suddenly bursting out towards something. Then she felt it. Across the table, a strong magical presence was manifesting just as hers had, but in a different, more menacing way.

“Oh, how fascinating!” spoke her father. “A Muggleborn, then?” 

The presence was dark, stifling, and made her nerves dance on edge. Her magic was reaching towards it, and she could not stop it. She had not learned to control her inner magic while studying ancient runes and runic magic; she had only learned to _feel_ it, and even then she had only performed the blood spell to do so once. Now, she could feel Riddle’s magic. It was malicious, it was evil, it was angry, and it was _him_. To be able to feel someone else’s magical essence was extremely difficult magic. To do so took extremely advanced runic magic that she would not be able to master for years, possibly never. It was a very rare skill and took the most brilliant of wizards and witches. Had he done so already? Was that why he looked so intrigued when she told him of her project? Had he already mastered runic magic? It would not surprise her, but it did intrigue her. But that didn’t explain…how could she feel him?

“My father was a Muggle,” said Riddle softly. “My mother was a witch.”

She felt a lurch in his magic, as if it was pulsing like a heartbeat, ticking like a bomb, trying to explode and attack anything and everything in its path. She could feel her unfamiliar magic reaching out for him as if it had a mind of its own. Hermione could do nothing to stop it.

“Ah, a half-blood, and a brilliant wizard! Your parents must have been strong and powerful individuals in their own right.”

She wished her father would stop talking. He was growing angrier, his magic reflecting his emotions, even as surprise flickered across his face and he offered her father a polite smile. Perhaps he had thought the Grangers, being a noble pureblood family, would be prejudiced. Hermione felt a strange comfort for him in knowing that he would find no prejudice in their home.

“I never did recognize your surname. It makes sense now. Do you know what family your mother was from?”

His magic lurched again, finally brushing against hers. Riddle’s eyes immediately shot to her, hard and angry and curious; fascinated, and then hungry. Hermione’s lip trembled and she sucked it between her teeth. He was touching her, stroking her, but not physically. How could this be happening? Hermione willed her powers back to no avail. It was like he was tainting her, curling around her magic like a snake, pulling her in. She had never been more afraid of Tom Riddle than in this moment, caught in a tense conversation at her father’s dinner table. His magic was unlike anything she had ever felt. The only time she had felt anything similar to it was when she did research on the Dark Arts and performed some darker spells from them on the wilting plants in her garden. Her uneasiness did not dissipate at the feel of his magic, but it explained many things, like why she found him so cold-natured and emotionless, why he inexplicably made her feel so constantly wary of him since their days at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle had something dark in him. She could feel it.

With a gasp, Hermione pushed away from the table, ripping her magic away from Riddle’s cold and tight grasp. It seemed to physically slam into her chest with a light pressure, sending her back into the cushioned velvet of the dining chair. Her hand came up to her chest where she felt the pressure of her magic straining magic squeezing around her heart, and immediately, as she clasped her own hand around her throat, she understood.

Beneath the warmth of her palm, sat her newly gifted emerald necklace, a piece of jewelry with unknown magical powers.

“Are you alright, ‘Mione?” asked Hectr, looking at Hermione with alarm at her second outburst of the night.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaked. “I thought I felt something brush my leg under the table,” she lied quickly. “Perhaps it was Crookshanks - it startled me.”

In silence, she scooted her chair back under the table, reaching for her wine glass.

“Her cat,” explained her father at Riddle’s pinched brow. “But you were talking about your family, Tom? I find ancestry so fascinating.”

Her necklace was doing this! Hermione’s mind was racing. _This_ was its secret magical properties? Wandless and wordless and completely unintentional and effortless magical bonding? She had bonded with her own inner magic in seconds, and now she was able to feel _his_. But how did it work? She had not felt anything yesterday or earlier this evening. It must be because she had not worn it very long. The piece of jewelry had taken time to bond with her quietly before she could bond with her magic. It had probably been nearly two hours now since she had put it on.

“My father is dead,” said Riddle, folding his hands across the table and stroking his thumb across the stone of the gold ring he always wore. “That’s all I know about him. My mother…I cannot say much about her, I’m afraid. It’s quite embarrassing, you see.”

Riddle schooled his features into an innocent and ashamed blush that she recognized from their Hogwarts day.

“My mother’s family came from an old and noble pureblood house, that unfortunately fell from grace over a century ago. I know barely a thing about them.”

“Sadly, many families have…” sighed her father and, _finally_ , did not say another word about Riddle’s heritage.

The two of them said something more, but Hermione was once again stuck in her own head, her fingers curling around the pendant of her necklace, vaguely aware that Riddle was occasionally looking at her. She could not feel her father’s magical presence, nor could she feel the house elves’ strong magic as they took away their dessert plates and cleared the table. She could only feel _him_ , powerful and dark and seductive. Why? The necklace clearly allowed her to feel the presence of another wizard’s magic. Why was it only Riddle’s?

The answer sat at the back of her mind. He was adept in the Dark Arts, he had to be. It was the only explanation for all the emotions she had felt around him thus far. The necklace allowed her to feel another’s magic, but only if it was dark. Why? To protect herself, she figured. She did not feel protected, especially without her wand. She felt exposed, and after her magic had escaped to his serpent-like clutches, she felt tempted.

“Shall we retire to the parlor and talk business, Tom?” her father was asking, and Hermione stood as they both did, desperate to escape from the stuffiness of Riddle’s magic. Did she trust him alone with her father, though? She thought so. For some reason, her magic made her feel a sense of comfort as she asked that question, as if telling her to trust it, to trust her gut. Riddle seemed fond of her father, and his father was extremely fond of him. From watching him with their professors at Hogwarts, Hermione knew that Riddle treasured the relationships with those that were overly fond of him. It was why he had always kissed Professor Slughorn’s and Headmaster Dippet’s arses.

“I’ll leave you men to it, then. I’m feeling tired, so I will retire to my room for the night.”

Hermione took the opportunity of Riddle still being at the other end of the table as she kissed her father’s cheek and stepped backwards again, towards the exit.

“Mr. Riddle, thank you for a lovely evening. I hope your business with my father ends in triumph for the both of you,” she said politely.

Riddle looked, for lack of a better word, unhappy about her sudden departure, but his courteous smile said otherwise under the watchful eyes of her father.

“I think it will,” he said, and Hermione did not miss his double-meaning. Her eyes narrowed. “Thank you for the pleasant conversation, and do…feel better, Miss Granger.”

Merlin, the very tone of his voice was frightening, so detached and filled with underlying threats that felt, to Hermione, more like dark promises. She had a sinking feeling that, despite her hopes of not seeing him ever again, Riddle had other plans.

She immediately took her leave after that, turning on her heel and nearly dashing towards the exit. The flow of her dress allowed an airy coolness to creep into her skin, cooling her down from such an intense night. As soon as Hermione turned the corner, away from her father and Tom Riddle’s sight, she reached behind her to unclasp her necklace. As amazing as it felt to be connected with her inner magic, she wanted the damned thing off until she knew what exactly was going on.

To her curiosity and utter horror, the necklace would not come off. Not even when Hermione reached her bedroom and attempted to undo the clasp with the help of her vanity mirror, did it come off. It was as if it had been welded shut. Hermione groaned in frustration, staring at the beautiful jewelry in the mirror’s reflection.

It was a very grand and weighted necklace to have to constantly wear. She would weigh the pros and cons after a good night of sleep, but for now, at least the necklace had offered her one new frightening revelation: Tom Riddle may be a dark wizard, and she had undoubtedly caught his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter!
> 
> We learned a bit about Tom (although it was things we already knew) and we learned a lot about Hermione! I'm having an interesting but fun time with this new approach to writing Hermione Granger as a pureblood. We got a hint at some of her friends...stay tuned for a certain blonde in chapter three. We also got some insight into the death of her mother and perhaps even a little hostility between Hermione and her father? What do you all think? 
> 
> All will be revealed soon! I should have the next chapter up within the next week, so in the meantime, leave those awesome reviews that had me tearing up on the last chapter :') Thank you all for reading xx


	3. Bookstore Discovery

Three weeks passed before Hermione saw Tom Riddle again. That dinner lived infamously in her memory, and because of the necklace still magically clasped around her throat, she was constantly reminded of it.

From what her father told her, he and Riddle had continued their pleasant conversation well into the night after Hermione retired to her bedroom. The business deal had ended with both men getting what they wanted. Mr. Burke had offered a fair number of galleons for a set of five of the famous Hector Dagworth-Granger’s old potions journals, and in turn, Riddle had made the sale he had wanted from the beginning. Her father had said he hoped Riddle had earned a worthy commission for his dedicated work and even admitted that he had tipped her fellow Hogwarts alumni a great deal for his help in purchasing her new emerald necklace.

Her father constantly spoke of Riddle, of how he seemed fond of Hermione - she had almost laughed aloud at that - and of how impressed he was that Riddle was so brilliant and ambitiously driven from the situation he had been raised in. To her horror, he had mentioned twice of how intrigued and passionate Riddle was about potions, and how he had invited him back to their home to spend a day with him in his lab.

_He would be a good apprentice;_ Hector Granger had hummed to himself at the breakfast table the morning following the infamous dinner party. _He could live here, and I could train him…he seemed interested enough…_

Hermione had nearly spit out her quiche. Tom Riddle had always been interested in _many_ subjects, if him taking as many NEWTs as she had was any indication. She was horrified at the idea of her father taking a new apprentice in Riddle. The last had been a much older boy by the name of Tyranius Bulstrode. He had lived with them for six months under the teaching of her father. He was good company and Hermione had enjoyed his stay even though she barely saw him since she was only home at Christmas and summer holiday. He was working on a project at the Ministry, the last she heard, and that was five years ago. She knew her father had expressed interest in taking on a new apprentice… _but Riddle_? Hermione hoped to Merlin and Morgana that he was content enough at _Borgin and Burke’s_ to stay out of her home.

Allowing that bloody business deal to happen was one thing, but allowing a potentially dark wizard to train in such close proximity under her father…? She would _never_ allow that as long as she had a say in the matter. She never wanted to see Tom Riddle again.

Hermione hoped she never would have to, and she grew more and more at ease when the weeks passed and she did not see him. It was unsurprising, however, for it had been three years since Riddle graduated and she had never seen him before last month, despite the fact that they apparently shared some of the same friends. She had always known Abraxas Malfoy was friends with Tom Riddle but had never given it much thought until she had dined with the devil three weeks ago.

In the present moment, however, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy as she and Abraxas spent the day in Diagon Alley together. They started with lunch before meeting Victoria Selwyn for a shopping trip. Abraxas always enjoyed giving his opinion when he got stuck shopping with the girls. Hermione thought he just enjoyed seeing them in pretty and revealing dresses, but he gave his honest opinion. She at least appreciated that over the company of Alfyn Lestrange, who had accompanied her and her friends many times on shopping trips and muttered crude compliments after every outfit reveal. The Malfoy’s were holding a Hallowe’en ball in less than a month, and after Eleanor Greengrass had revealed at brunch last week that she had already bought her gown, Victoria and Hermione frantically scheduled a trip to Diagon Alley.

Both Victoria and Hermione, after several hours of trying on dresses, were pleased with their final choices (as was Abraxas) and had hugged goodbye before Victoria had to Floo home for a family dinner, as her cousins from Austria were in town. Hermione and Abraxas stopped for tea before he dragged her to Florean Fortesque’s for ice cream. She had indulged him by sharing a rather large sundae, of which Abraxas tried to steal all of the chocolate ice cream from, knowing it was her favorite.

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” laughed Hermione when he batted her spoon away to take the last cherry. “Not very chivalrous today, are you? What would your mother say?”

Abraxas chuckled and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “She would smack me for sure, especially for treating _Hermione Granger_ as anything but a proper lady. Bloody hell, that woman adores you.”

“I know,” said Hermione in a prissy tone, grinning at Abraxas as he rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. “By the way, I like you better with short hair, you know.”

He had recently chopped his shoulder-length locks into a stylish cut that reminded her of Riddle’s - short on the sides and long on the top. It was becoming quite a popular style right now.

“Me too,” said Abraxas with a wink. “I look less like my father and therefore less intimidating.”

Hermione snorted, tossing her spoon into the empty bowl when she could not scrape up anymore of the melted ice cream. She glanced back to her friend to find him sneering and swatting at a fly that had landed on their table, trying to get close to their sticky leftovers. “Oh yes, real intimidating.”

Abraxas shot her a playful glare but turned it into a charming smile. Hermione felt her smile soften and her heart clench. He really was quite dashing when he wanted to be.

“Hey, listen…I wanted to ask you something,” he said suddenly in a shier tone than usual.

Hermione straightened, her eyes scanning their surroundings automatically when Abraxas leaned towards her on his elbows. After another moment of silence, she offered him a playful and encouraging smile. “It’s only me! Spit it out.”

“Well…I wanted to know if you would accompany me to the Hallowe’en Ball at the manor later this month. You can say no if you feel weird…since we’re friends and all.”

Hermione smiled at his charming invitation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brax, we’ve been to dances together before. Of course, I’ll go with you.” His confidence seemed to return tenfold and he smirked at her in a haughty and attractive way that also reminded her of Riddle. Perhaps they were spending too much time together, the two men, although she was not sure who learned _that_ particular smirk from who.

“Well lucky me then, to get to have you on my arm in that dress,” he added with a wink, referring to the white number that she had purchased.

“You did insist that I buy it,” she laughed.

“And now you know why!”

“I could’ve very well denied your invitation!”

Abraxas feigned a hurtful gasp, holding his hand over his heart before his grin returned. “You would have never said no to your best friend.”

Hermione smiled, grabbing her shopping bags as Abraxas laid down a galleon for the ice cream and tip. They stood to leave the patio, the cool autumn air returning as they passed through the warming charm and back onto the busy street.

“Actually, I thought you might ask Victoria,” continued Hermione when they started walking back towards the Leaky Cauldron.

“Victoria? Why?”

His response caught her off guard and Hermione gaped at him. _Really, boys could be so daft sometimes…_

“She’s clearly smitten with you, you moron. I’m sure she would love to be on your arm for the ball.”

Abraxas looked at her strangely before shrugging his broad shoulders. “I’ll invite her to the next one. I thought we were just friends - I’ve never thought of her _that_ way before.”

“Why not?” Hermione questioned, trying to keep his attention as they passed Quality Quidditch Supplies. “She’s pretty, kind and not over-the-top like most pureblood witches, although she knows her role. That’s why her and I get along so well.”

“I don’t know,” hummed Abraxas. “I mean, she’s all those things but…I don’t know.”

Hermione smiled to herself even as she pet Abraxas on the arm reassuringly, telling him to forget she said anything. Perhaps she could help out two of her closest friends in realizing they would work quite well together.

Abraxas began rambling on about something in the Quidditch shop window as they navigated the crowd toward the Leaky. As they grew closer, a flash of red in a shop window caught her eye.

_Secondhand Tomes: **NOW OPEN!**_

****

Hermione gasped and skidded to a halt, grabbing Abraxas’s sleeve before he could leave without her. She dashed to the bookstore’s window, practically pressing her nose against it as she tried to look inside.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she heard Abraxas mutter as he came up beside her. “Can I fancy a guess that you’re not Flooing home right now after all?”

She turned to him with a giddy grin, practically bouncing on her toes. “Of course not! I need at least an hour here to check out these new books! A new bookstore, Brax! Finally! I’ve gotten so sick of Flourish and Blotts - ”

“Yeah because you’ve read everything in there,” Abraxas snorted fondly, eyeing her with mirth. “And you’ve read everything in your house, nearly half of the library at the manor - the same probably goes for Alfyn - ”

“I am not nearly close enough to conquering half of your manor’s books… Perhaps I need to come over more often.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” smiled Abraxas. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I didn’t wear the right robes to get dusty in the bookshelves with you again,” he added with a wink. He did not give her time to roll her eyes at his joking innuendo before he was offering, “Shall I Floo your father and let him know _not_ to wait on you for dinner?”

“Oh, yes please!” beamed Hermione, her eyes flickering between Abraxas and the shop door. “You’re the best!” And she kissed him on the cheek and dashed inside before her friend could get in another word. She glanced over her shoulder, waving from inside the shop to see Abraxas smile at her fondly, shaking his head in amusement before turning and walking away.

The bookshop smelled of parchment and dusty tomes - one of Hermione’s favorite smells. The shop was open, but it certainly was not fully organized yet. It seemed to need _many_ more shelves to accommodate the stacks of books that were nearly piled to the ceiling, and the shelves they did have were still in bunches in the corner, some still wrapped in paper as if they were brand new. It was half the size of Flourish and Blotts, but it was charming in its own right with an upstairs loft, softly lit wall sconces, and oriental rugs of warm colors laid across the wood floors. Books were even stacked up the stairs, some bindings falling apart while others looked brand new.

“Hello,” said a small voice from behind her.

Hermione turned to see a young girl, no more than thirteen at least, staring up at her. She looked vaguely familiar, and she remembered within another moment that she was in Gryffindor . The girl had dirty brown hair that was combed tightly into a low braid at the back of her neck.

“Hermione Granger?” the girl asked suddenly, realization dawning across her surprisingly brisk and confident features for a young girl.

“Yes! I thought you looked familiar as well. Minerva, right?” she smiled.

“Minerva McGonagall,” she said. “You were Head Girl in my first year.”

“Of course! I remember you quite well, Minerva. Why are you not at Hogwarts, then?”

Minerva shuffled her feet and glanced towards an open door at the back of the room. “Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore let me come home for the weekend. My uncle opened this shop today, and my mother and I wanted to do what we could to help.”

“Well, that was nice of the Headmaster, and of you and your mum. This place is wonderful,” said Hermione in a dreamy tone as she looked about the eclectic shop again.

“It will be,” said Minerva curtly, “but it needs some work.”

The girl’s ‘business only’ attitude had humored Hermione since the first day she met the young witch. Yes, she remembered her well now. She was more serious than Hermione had ever been, and that was saying a lot, but Minerva was a brilliant and promising young lady who showed immense talent even during her first term at Hogwarts.

“How’s third year going?” Hermione asked, making conversation.

“Well enough. I made the Quidditch team! We play Ravenclaw the first weekend of October and I just got an ‘O’ on my Transfiguration exam.”

Hermione could not help but smile with pride at the young Gryffindor. She began congratulating her when an older man with salt and pepper hair, and younger lady that looked to be related to him, stepped out of the back room.

“Hello,” greeted the man with a warm smile. “I see my niece is doing a fine job of greeting our customers.”

“You must be the owner,” said Hermione with a smile, reaching for his outstretched hand. “I’m Hermione Granger. You have started a charming business here.”

“Hermione was my Head Girl at Hogwarts,” said Minerva before her uncle could respond. “I _always_ saw her in the library. She graduated top of her class and Headmaster Dippet and Professors Dumbledore and Slughorn always called her the brightest witch of the age!”

Hermione blushed crimson under the huge compliment, which sounded vaguely like when her father bragged about her to his colleagues.

“Is that so?” hummed Minerva’s uncle, turning a knowing smile on Hermione. She returned his smile with a small, embarrassed one as she greeted who she assumed was Mrs. McGonagall, Minerva’s mother. “Well, I didn’t open shop to talk the ears off of my customers. My family and I will retreat to the back room; we’re trying to finish taking stock and organizing is _such_ a hassle. I’ll leave you to scour the shelves and stacks, and I’m sorry it’s such a mess but feel free to use your wand to reach any books you may need, and holler for ‘Robert’ if you find something that fits your fancy.”

“Don’t apologize for a thing,” Hermione protested. “This place is absolutely lovely. You’ll find me here quite often, I think. I’m already seeing books I don’t recognize - and between us, that’s saying something.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Robert was leading his sister and niece back down the makeshift ‘aisle’, which was really just a thin walking path that had been made between lines of towering books.

“Nice to see you again, Minerva!” called Hermione. The girl waved back with the same sentiments, and once she disappeared into the back, Hermione climbed the rickety stairs with a grin. The loft was just as busy as the downstairs portion, with stacks of books that touched the ceiling and shelves of books that had only partially been organized.

She found herself working before she even noticed it, putting books on the shelf as she read through their table of contents. She came across a tome about Ancient Runes and set aside, not recognizing it as something she had ever read or owned. On the dusty floor, Hermione sat down and opened the large book, scrolling through theories she had never heard of before. This book was proving to be quite the informant, especially when Hermione came across a paragraph on bonding with runic magic.

Her eyes caught on a particular sentence that addressed the topic and she backtracked to the paragraph before, giving herself some leeway before diving into the information that could hopefully explain the situation she had found herself currently stuck in - literally.

_Ancient Runes allows one witch or wizard to express their magic in various forms. Magical bonding is the most common, occurring when a witch or wizard uses blood magic to connect with their inner spiritual being, therefore activating the very essence of their magic in an expressive form that allows said witch or wizard to feel and train their magic. Some runic spells and advanced blood rituals allow one to physically see their magic. While it is most common for any possessor of magical power to use runes to connect with their own magical printing, ancient runic spells, and some blood rituals, allow a witch or wizard and another of their kind to feel each other’s magical essence. (See Table B-9 & Pg. 58-83). _

That was exactly the information Hermione was looking for: how the necklace allowed her to feel another’s, or Tom Riddle’s, magical essence. She was doubtful she would find any details that could explain her magical necklace, but perhaps it could hint at what kind of runic magic was involved. She followed the endnote’s directions to page fifty-eight, excited at the prospect of having twenty-five pages of information on the particular subject at her fingertips.

_Magical bonding with a party of more than one witch or wizard and their individual magic is a rare occurrence. Magic bonds are a special type of magic inspired by two phenomena’s: the desire to unite one’s magic with another, or to increase one’s magical ability to be able to feel another’s magical essence. Therefore, magic bonds, in the first instance, are usually denoted as an act of love or passion. Twins born of magical heritage have been known to manifest magic bonding powers naturally, where the siblings can feel each other’s magic without performing a spell or ritual to awaken such power. This is the only instance where the magical world has proof of magic bonding naturally occurring without consent or ritual. While many individuals throughout history have claimed to have the natural ability of magic bonding with another person, magical theorists believe this not to be true. According to theorists, not including twin magic, only personal inner magic bonding can occur with natural-borne ability. Twin bonding, despite its phenomena of effortless bonding, has been largely unstudied throughout the last century._

Hermione hummed, finding the topic already interesting as she reached the bottom of the page. She had never known twins had a natural ability to bond with each other’s magic, although she was unsurprised. The concept of it all made sense and didn’t at the same time. The one question that was answered, however, was that Tom Riddle did not have the natural ability to magic bond outside of his own magical aura. Apparently, only twins have that power. But Hermione wondered if he had the natural ability to bond with his own magic, which she grudgingly admitted would be both impressive and intriguing. She had never met another witch or wizard that could do that, or perhaps kept quiet about their ability. She would have to research who in history had such a power, although a few famous names immediately came to mind. Still, if her hunch was right about the odd way Riddle had looked at her at dinner three weeks ago when her own magic manifested, he could feel her just as she had been able to feel him.

She was further intrigued, though, because the paragraph claimed that twin bonding was the only form of magic bonds known to be effortless, that is occurring without a spell or ritual. So how had her experience naturally and effortlessly occurred? Hermione had performed a blood ritual to even bond with her _own_ inner magic, and it had taken hours. So how had the necklace allowed her to not only bond with her magic, but Riddle’s? If twin magic was the only explanation for natural magic bonding, then her questions about the necklace would go unanswered. Still, there was more on the subject, so she read on.

_Magic bonds between two or more witch or wizards has always been a subtle taboo in the wizarding world, especially in the last century. Magic bonds often occur at wedding ceremonies, an ancient practice that purebloods administered up until the latter half of the 19 th century. In some cultures, it is still common, but in Wizarding Britain, it is largely looked down on. This is mostly due to the witch’s civil rights movement that began in 1867, where many witches began refusing to perform the ancient bonding ritual. _

_In this form, magic bonds are performed to unite a witch or wizard in marriage, or family members, as an act of love or passion. It is important to note that this form of magical bonding is different from the form that will be discussed below. This form, often called ‘passion bonding’, demands that participants make consensual physical contact for over twenty minutes before each individual pushes a small part of their soul into their partner. This resembles a form of dark magic that will not be mentioned here but is one of the reasons passion bonding has become a taboo subject among the magical community (Spell work will not be found in this book for legal reasons. Look to page 80 for a legal history of the passion and essence bonding rituals.)._

Hermione had only heard of the practice in passing before, although until now she did not know the extent of the act. Putting a piece of your soul into your partner? It sounded…barbaric. Now, with the knowledge that many of her pureblood friends’ families could still use this practice, Hermione was horrified. Passion bonding, she was sure, had nothing to do with her situation, but as she read on, she began to believe that the next concept did.

_As mentioned in the first paragraph, the second form of a magic bond are performed by an individual with the intention of increasing their ability and power in the magical arts. A dangerous runic ritual is the only way to accomplish this. Performed by a talented witch or wizard, it can be a permanent spell. This form of magic bonding, termed here as ‘essence bonding’ is not nearly as powerful as passion bonding. Passion bonding allows the participants to be connected, since they are united by a shared piece of their soul, and in many instances depending on the strength of the witch or wizard, allows the partners to: 1) “feel” where their partner is, unless at a great distance (see p.65); 2) “sense” what their partner is feeling (see p.68; and 3) in rare cases, speak with their partner telepathically (see p.71)._

_Essence bonding includes neither of the above three, and is, therefore, a lighter form of magical bonding. Essence bonding uses a less sensitive form of ‘feeling’, meaning that the witch or wizard that performs the spell can only feel the essence of another - and only if that other witch or wizard has bonded with their own personal magic. If a witch or wizard performs the essence bonding spell (spellwork on p.63) on themselves, they can feel the essence of other witches or wizards in close proximity that have performed a personal bonding spell (or have the natural ability)._

That was it, Hermione realized as her finger pointed to the sentence. She reread the paragraph twice more. Essence bonding. It was what Tom Riddle was somehow, whether by a spell or natural ability, already adept in. It was how she could feel _his_ magical ‘essence’ mere moments after she bonded with her own magic. For a moment, Hermione was in awe at the incredible magic this necklace had performed. Her fingers rose to stroke the emerald pendant. Within five minutes, the necklace had somehow bonded her to her own magic, and then Riddle’s!

It also explained why she couldn’t feel her father’s magical essence. She wasn’t debunking the theory that Riddle _was_ a dark wizard - whatever she had felt of his magic was thick and suffocating and dark - but perhaps her theory that the necklace only allowed her, or even warned her, of dark magic in her proximity, was false. Maybe she couldn’t feel her father’s magic, or the house elves, or even her friends’ because they were not bonded with their own magic! After all, runic magic was very difficult to accomplish, and she doubted that her father or friends had tried it. Yet, she had been in the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley all afternoon and evening, in the proximity of probably a hundred wizards and witches, and she had not felt anything. Surely someone had either bonded with their inner magic by way of a spell or natural ability… If anything, she was surprised she had felt nothing from the house elves, as their magic was usually more powerful than any witch or wizard.

Despite the information flooding her brain, Hermione still had unanswered questions, but at least it could confirm any assumptions she had about Riddle being able to feel her own magic that night. While she wanted to know the truth about what he may have discovered about her, she also hoped she never got the chance to ask him. Those questions may always go unanswered, because she never wanted to see Riddle again. But if anything, she felt positive at having an idea about what kind of magic her necklace possessed.

Content with the tome in her lap, Hermione crossed her legs and continued to read:

_Magic bonds, or essence bonds, using runic spells and rituals have always caused issues in the magical community because of the ability for a witch or wizard to perform it without another’s consent. Connecting with another’s magic has long been discouraged by the magical community if the bonders are not family. Because an essence bonding spell does not take a blood ritual, witches or wizards that have bonded with their own magic will not be informed, nor ever able to obtain the knowledge that another can feel the presence of their magical essence. This presence, or feeling, has been described as certain qualities a wizard or witch may already possess in their character. In 1812, life-long friends Herbert Coddleworth and Yunes Minstrone performed the essence bonding spell, writing that_ “Herbert’s essence was light, comforting and friendly; it felt familiar _._ ” _There are few accounts of similar circumstances, but one may find an entry in Godric Gryffindor’s journals enlightening (but cannot be quoted here for copyright reasons, see_ “Telling the Tales of Godric” _), where Gryffindor, who was known to be learned in the magical art of essence bonding, described his old friend Salazar Slytherin as growing darker by the day - an uneasy feeling that made Godric try to research a way to smother his natural ability to essence bond, that is, until Slytherin deserted his friends and the legacy of the Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_Two magical essences_ can _bond by the way of touch. This has only been known to occur when one does not have control of their own magic. In other situations, where both magical essences are tamed and yet still “physically” touch, it may be a sign of - ”_

Hermione’s attention was stolen from the informative tome by the closing of the shop door. Rising on her knees, she glanced over the railing to see the very wizard she had been hoping to never cross paths with again, the very wizard she was studying in every sentence of her new book. Tom Riddle walked through the door, dressed immaculately in his classic black work robes with a blank look on his handsome face. His eyes darted around the bookshop, most likely taking in the clutter of the newly opened store, before they traveled to the second-floor loft where Hermione was hiding. With wide eyes, she ducked beneath the banister and hastily crawled behind the bookshelf, leaving the Ancient Runes tome behind on the floor. She knew it was childish, but under no circumstances did she want to see him. Hopefully Minerva or her uncle would distract him downstairs.

Hermione stood, keeping safely behind a shelf that was luckily full of books, and brushed off her own robes of any lingering dust. She scanned the titles for anything that might interest her, but her ears were working harder, straining to hear any noise that may indicate Tom Riddle’s approach up the stairs.

This really _was_ just her luck, she thought as she pressed herself closer to the bookshelf. If she was at the correct angle, she could remain hidden if he came up the stairs and perhaps even slip away unnoticed. The urge to peak around the corner was strong, but Hermione forced herself to ignore the inclination. Still, she heard no voices downstairs and could only assume that Minerva and her family had not heard him enter. Maybe he had left when no one came to assist him?

No, that was unlikely. Riddle’s bookworm habits had always resembled hers. If they were anything alike, he did not care for assistance at a bookstore, even when faced with one thousand unorganized tomes. Hermione had always quite liked to peruse for herself. The adventure and suspense of searching and finding that perfect book was part of the fun.

In her quiet hiding, Hermione’s eyes caught a battered copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. It was one of her favorites and always had been. Her mother had first read it to her when she was four years old and her father had carried on the tradition ever since, rarely ever reading another bedtime story since she always insisted on the very same book. When she was old enough, Hermione devoured the pages on her own, usually reading it twice a year.

Suddenly, Hermione heard a the scuff of a book being slid from a shelf. The taller book behind _Hogwarts: A History_ was taken from its slot, allowing Hermione to see through the gap. She gasped at sudden movement, but also at the collar of black dress robes and wavy dark hair falling over arched eyebrows, which were raised from the smirk on Tom Riddle’s lips. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment in defeat. How had he come up here without her noticing? He was as stealthy as a cobra, and made her feel very much like his prey. By the sneaky smile on his lips, she had a sinking feeling that he knew she was hiding behind the shelf, but she backed away quietly all the same. Either way, she was trapped, she realized, when Tom Riddle poked his head around the corner, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Miss Granger… What a surprise.”

His very words sent a shiver down her spine, and all at once she could feel a dark and tempting presence emanating from him. It was tame, unlike hers, which she had learned in the past three weeks was very wild. Her magical aura - she had discovered the term in a book last week - was not trained, and she had yet to find a way to conquer it.

“Mr. Riddle, you startled me,” said Hermione, her hand intentionally coming up to her throat to cover her necklace.

“That was never my intention, of course. How have you been? It has been some time since I’ve last seen you.” He was all charming smiles and politeness, but she did not miss the greedy and curious flicker of his eyes on her necklace.

“I’ve been fine, Mr. Riddle,” she responded hastily. “I hope the same for yourself, but I’m afraid I really must be going.”

Hermione was unable to meet his penetrating stare as she moved to step past him. A firm hand on her arm stopped her, stalling her heart and breath at the same time. She glanced up at Riddle, whose face was void of emotion as he stared over her shoulder at the wall, acting as if nothing was amiss.

“I can always tell when you are lying to me, Miss Granger.”

Her eyes widened as she stared up at his profile, dumbfounded, as fear crept into her heartstrings.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what - ”

“You know very well what I’m talking about Miss Granger,” hissed Riddle, all niceties suddenly vanishing as his blue eyes narrowed threateningly. “I think you know exactly what happened three weeks ago, which means you know _entirely_ too much.”

Hermione trembled stiffly under his glare, willing herself to calm down, even as thoughts of Riddle violently questioning her about her magic, and what she knew of his, flooded her brain.

“Am I to assume that it does not bode well for anyone that knows too much about you, Mr. Riddle?” she asked rather snootily, sounding much more collected than she felt. 

His jaw clenched so tight that Hermione swore she heard it click. With a rough pull on her arm, she was stumbling into Riddle’s chest before he shoved her against the side of the bookshelf. She gasped at the impact, her lips parting in surprise as Riddle stepped into her personal space, their shoes bumping at the toes.

“I’m not an…open person, Miss Granger - ”

“Nor am I,” she responded quickly.

“I have noticed you have secrets of your own. But you gave one away at dinner three weeks ago, didn’t you?”

Hermione glared up at him defiantly, yanking her arm out of his grasp so suddenly that she banged her elbow into the wood shelving behind her.

“Don’t worry yourself over mine or my family’s secrets, Mr. Riddle, as you have no right to know them and _never_ will.”

“That only intrigues me more - ”

“Well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it,” spat Hermione. “Now, get away from me.”

When Riddle made no move to go anywhere, Hermione shoved at his chest as hard as she could. He did not budge.

“Cooperate, Miss Granger, and this will be much less painful for you,” he said silkily, raising a hand to the smooth wood beside her head. Hermione felt very much like she was back in that linen closet, trapped with no escape. “Surely, you’re just as curious as to why you can feel your own magical aura - and mine - as I am. Do not fight me, and I will give you the answers you crave.”

Well, she supposed that answered any lingering hope. Tom Riddle, it seemed, unfortunately knew exactly what happened to her three weeks ago. Hermione hesitated for a moment, before her pursuits to push him away halted. As much as she wanted to fight him, she wanted answers more, and it was not like he could do anything to her with other people downstairs. Glaring up at him, she stuck out her chin and settled her features with as much confidence as she could muster. Riddle could not fight the smirk creeping up his lips, but it held more notes of darkness and greed than it did humor. With him standing so close, his breath fanning across her forehead, Hermione realized how terrifying his smile really was. He was terrifyingly beautiful in general, but especially, she thought as her eyes dipped to his curved lips, when he smirked with such a lack of emotion.

“Your magic…it manifested at the dinner table that night, didn’t it?” asked Riddle softly, his sandalwood cologne overwhelming her as Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. She merely nodded in response as his stare dipped to her neck, which was craning back to look up at him. “It’s happened before?”

“With a spell,” confirmed Hermione. “Runic magic allows one to - ”

“Become in touch with their inner magic, I know,” hummed Riddle, his stare moving across her clavicle and up to her pursed lips. “Blood magic, or magic bonding, is very dangerous; some may even say it is dark.”

Hermione’s brow raised at the way his lips curled and caressed around the word ‘dark’, almost as if he was intimately petting it. 

“There is nothing dark about bonding with your own magic,” said Hermione firmly, “even if it is a blood ritual.” She had said the same thing to her father and friends when she had told them of her project.

“But there is when you bond with someone else’s,” said Riddle softly. His eyes were all-knowing as he stared at her, and Hermione knew with certainty now that he had felt and experienced exactly what she did three weeks ago. Suddenly, the hand at his side came to her throat, wrapping delicately around it, studying the slim tendons and thin muscle in his palm. Hermione remained dead still, her knees shaking slightly as his fingers trailed across her collarbone to pinch the pendant of her necklace between his thumb and forefinger.

“You said you performed a runic spell to bond with your magic, which means you do not have the natural ability. So, how did you, unknowingly and unaware, perform a magic bond before my very eyes without a ritual?” said Riddle thoughtfully, staring at the emerald stone and tracing the diamonds with the pad of his thumb. “Unless…the magical properties in this necklace manifested?”

Hermione’s gulp was confirmation enough, and Riddle let her go.

“Did you know…when you sold it to me?” asked Hermione hesitantly.

“No. What else can the necklace do?” he asked curtly, his gaze narrowing.

Hermione schooled her features into one of innocence and indifference. “Nothing, that I know of, other than bond with my magic and give me the ability to feel another’s.”

Riddle’s gaze narrowed further. “I touched you. I felt you that night.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as her mind became tainted with ideas of Riddle doing exactly that, but without any magic at all.

“So, did I,” she said, her voice a mere whisper as she watched as Riddle stepped even closer to her, their hips brushing.

“You pulled away.”

“I was…scared. I didn’t understand what was happening,” said Hermione, which was true, but she knew she would have to lie through her teeth if Riddle’s questioning continued.

“What could you feel,” growled Riddle, his left hand suddenly raising to the other side of her head.

Hermione knew she could not tell him that she knew how dark his magic truly was. She took him seriously when he suggested, threateningly, that she ‘knew too much’, and she had no intentions of telling a potentially practiced wizard in the Dark Arts that she knew what he was hiding.

“Nothing,” she lied, staring unblinkingly up at him. “Just a…presence, an energy. It was…strong, and…powerful.”

Riddle glared suspiciously down at her, but Hermione kept her chin high. She complimented him on purpose, every nerve in her body screaming at her to flatter him. She had a feeling, a suspicion she had had even at school, that Riddle thrived on flattery, making him less likely to harm her. And she was _very_ frightened that he would harm her. But her word clearly had an impact on him, as his lips twitched, and his blue eyes turned greedy.

“Your magic only reacted to mine. Why?”

“I…don’t know. Because you were the only one there bonded to your magic, maybe.”

“I told you that I can always tell when you’re lying to me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes blew wide. “I’m not - ”

“And _I’m_ not stupid,” Riddle hissed. “House elves are natural magic bonders, especially those that are not abused, and yet you did not react to them. Only me. So again, I’ll ask: what did you feel?”

Hermione had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what she had felt, but it was an interesting revelation that house elves had the natural ability to magic bond. It was also a mistake on her part, since he had caught her in a lie. House elves were usually more powerful than most wizards, which was why they had been enslaved centuries ago, but the Granger’s had always given their house elves free will, so it would make sense that they would have the ability. But then why had she not felt _their_ magic? She wondered if her theory about her necklace only detecting dark magic was true, as if it was trying to protect her, but she did not want Riddle knowing her suspicions.

“I…can’t explain why my magic acted the way it did towards you, other than I am untrained and it all happened very fast and unexpectedly,” said Hermione in a light tone.

Riddle hummed, apparently in deep thought. “Perhaps you are just drawn to me,” he responded eventually with a mocking smirk.

Hermione’s sneered up at him as a blush crept up her neck, unwilling to even entertain the thought that what he said was true. But Riddle continued, saving her from a response:

“You are a strong witch, Miss Granger, but you are by no means extraordinary.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed into amber slits as his smirk grew. “I think you know more than you’re letting on, and I want to know exactly what it is you _do_ know.”

“You lost the right to any knowledge of me or this necklace the moment you sold it to me. I have absolutely no reason to tell you anything, and you cannot tempt me otherwise,” she spat.

“And yet, you _are_ tempted, aren’t you?” Riddle implied to Hermione’s immediate distaste. She was just beginning to respond when his wand flew into his hand, whizzing past Hermione at a rapid speed. “I believe, though, that you are intent on keeping silent about this. But that’s no matter… I shall find out all of your secrets in a moment.”

Hermione gaped up at him in indignation, alarm bells ringing in her head as the tip of his wand touched her temple and his lips leaned towards hers. “Legili - ”

“Miss Granger? Still exploring up there?”

The shop owner, Robert, was calling out to her from below and Hermione took a grateful, shuddering breath as Riddle stepped calmly away from her.

“I’m done for the day, I think, Robert!” she responded shakily. “But my _friend_ Tom is up here, and I believe he has a question for you about…uh, Nifflers…” she lowered her voice now so only Riddle could hear her, “…or maybe about how to stay the fuck out of people’s heads without their permission,” she growled.

Riddle had the audacity to smirk, perhaps at her language, despite how angry he looked that they had been interrupted. Hermione stepped into him fearlessly as she heard Robert climbing the stairs.

“If you _ever_ come near me again, I will hex you into next year,” she hissed mere inches from his downturned nose. With a shove past him, Hermione grabbed her shopping bags off the floor and met Robert at the top of the stairs. She made a quiet promise to return soon and thanked him for his help before leaving him to deal with what he believed was an interested customer.

She did not look back as she descended the stairs on shaky legs, too rattled to think straight until she left the new bookstore for the bustling Diagon Alley. With quick strides, she headed straight for the Leaky Cauldron, wishing that she had just Floo’d home with Abraxas when she had the chance. Even more, she wished never to see Tom Riddle again. Yet, in the back of her mind, she knew she had many questions that only _he_ could answer probably.

Back in the small, dusty shop of _Secondhand Tomes_ , Tom Riddle watched on as Robert Ross, the shopkeeper, dug through a pile of books, searching for information on Hermione’s ridiculous excuse about Nifflers. He was not sure why those exact creatures were the first to come to her mind, but he had had no time to come up with something else before Robert had dove into an old battered pile of tomes on the floor. The witch’s quick escape had worked, for now, and Tom’s temper was quickly rising at her hasty departure. Still, his lips curved into a small smile when he recalled her measly threats and her cunning punishment by leaving him with the over-eager shopkeeper.

Tom paced as the shop owner tittered on about Nifflers, exploring the relatively empty shelves that had not yet been organized amid the store’s opening. Tom thought it unprofessional and rather preposterous to open a shop that was not yet organized for public perusal. _He_ certainly couldn’t imagine doing business that way. Tom’s looked slowly back to the pile of books the shopkeeper was rummaging through and rolled his eyes towards the loft railing. They landed on an open book in the exactly spot he had first noticed the top of brown bushy curls. His knees cracked as he bent down to pick up the tome, his eyes falling to the title of the open page, which read: _Ancient Runes: The Essence of Bonding Magic._

Tom smirked triumphantly as he closed the book, tucking it under his arm. Turning to the owner of the bookstore, he said with a charming and excited smile, “Actually, sir, I think I will make a purchase on this tome today instead.”

oOo

Two days later, on a dreary Sunday morning, Hermione entered the dining room for brunch, dressed and ready for the day in flowing robes.

“Good morning, father,” she greeted.

Hector Granger sat at the head of the table, ignoring his breakfast for the front page of the Daily Prophet, as usual. He had his lab robes already on, which Hermione found strange since he usually did not work in his lab on Sundays. It was his designated day off and they usually spent it together.

Hector set down the paper as she approached, leaning down to kiss his whiskery cheek.

“Good morning, dear. Trinky made crepes!”

As Hermione took her seat at the table and looked at the small spread in front of her, she realized he was right. There was a stack of towering crepes, which was emanating a wonderful smell, along with jars of jams, chocolate spreads, and a bowl of fruits. As usual, Hermione reached for the teapot first.

“What are your plans for the day?” asked Hector, folding his napkin in his lap as he looked at Hermione over his round spectacles.

“Tend to the garden, I think,” replied Hermione, carefully pouring her tea. “I think I’ll leave my research alone until Tuesday. I need some time outside.”

“Tuesday?” asked her father, looking surprised. “A whole two days without reading or researching… Are you ill, child?”

Hermione giggled. “No, I just don’t feel like it today, and tomorrow I have to work.”

“Work?” Hector grinned, intrigued, as he stirred sugar in his tea. “You got a job? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I only learned about it yesterday,” said Hermione, smiling at the thought. “It’s at a new bookshop in Diagon Alley called _Secondhand Tomes_. It just opened, but it needs an extra pair of hands.”

It was true; the charming new shop Robert Ross had opened needed all the help it could get. She had returned yesterday morning, in hopes of finding that Ancient Runes text that had been so informative. Imagine her surprise when Robert told her he had sold it to her _friend_ , Tom Riddle. She had never met such a petty wizard in all of her life! The audacity of him to take something so dear from her when he _knew_ she probably needed it. She tried not to picture Riddle’s arrogant grin when he had probably found the obvious, open book on the floor with pages full of bonding magic information. Hermione scowled at her plate at the thought. For once, she wished she _could_ see Riddle again, just so she could chew him out. In fact, she found herself rather hoping she would see him again so she could figure out what exactly he was playing at.

“Well, that’s wonderful, ‘Mione! How did you come across such an offer?”

She explained that she had gone into the shop inquiring about a book that had caught her eye, leaving out the part about Riddle _stealing_ it from her, of course. When Robert had led her to the back room to check the inventory for any books that contained information on magic bonds, Hermione had been shocked by the clutter. Minerva and her mother were leaving after the weekend, Robert had explained, and he did not think the shop would be organized by the time they left. It had been Hermione that mentioned wanting to help out, if he let her, and Robert immediately expressed interest in having an assistant. He offered to pay her a small amount to work Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, at least until the shop got on its feet and had a better income.

Hermione did not much care about the money; she had always been privileged in that department, coming from a wealthier pureblood family. She felt a sense of pride and accomplishment to be making money on her own, and in a bookstore of all places! It was a perfect fit, really. She wondered how often she would see Riddle, now that she worked at a bookstore in Diagon Alley, one that he had been inclined to visit on opening day just as she had. Would he return?

“So, you start tomorrow, then?” asked Hector as he began cutting into his stack of no less that eight crepes. Hermione lifted a brow in amusement.

“Yes, and I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I would’ve told you last night but then I ran into Cedrella Black and Septimus Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron and they invited me to sit to dinner with them.”

Her father chuckled over his fork as Hermione began began shoveling food onto her own plate. “You don’t have to tell me your every move, dear. You’re allowed to have a night out with friends. Cedrella is the daughter that was banished from the Black family, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, her cheeks turning red in anger. “That family has to be the worst bunch of people I’ve ever known. Their ancient pureblooded beliefs are going to get them into trouble one day.”

“I agree,” hummed Hector, shaking his head. “They’ve been involved in some nasty business over the years, especially with Muggleborns, but disowning their own daughter? It's despicable.”

Hermione shoved a grape and a strawberry slice into her mouth angrily. “Yes, well, Cedrella is quite happy with Septimus Weasley and quite better off without her family. They are due to marry in December, actually.”

The two fell into a silence for many minutes, reading the paper and spooning breakfast into their mouths simultaneously. Only when they both reached for the teapot, looking to fill up a second cup, did Hermione resume the conversation.

“Are you working in the lab today?” she asked as she filled them second helpings of the English breakfast brew.

“Oh!” her father said. “I meant to tell you Friday, but then Mr. Malfoy told me you got caught up in Diagon Alley, and then you were gone last night, but yes, I’ll be working in the lab every Sunday now.”

“But that’s usually our day together,” said Hermione with a small pout.

“My days off will move to Saturday now, dear, it’s no big deal.”

Hermione reached for honey. “Why are your Sundays busy now?”

“Well, I’ve taken on a new apprentice.”

The honey dipper fell into Hermione’s teacup suddenly, splashing tea into her lap. She turned surprised eyes on her father, although by the sinking feeling in her gut, she knew exactly where this conversation was going.

“Tom Riddle has agreed to an apprenticeship, albeit a slightly more relaxed one than I’ve had in the past,” explained Hector as if he was talking about the weather. “He won’t live here, since he still has to work full time in Diagon Alley, and his only day off with Mr. Burke is Sunday.”

“I, uh, didn’t realize you were so serious about taking him on,” said Hermione in a slightly choked voice. She took a long sip of tea and covered her scowl with another forkful of jam-covered crepes.

“Oh, yes! We’ve been exchanging letters since we had him for dinner.”

“Really,” growled Hermione with a glare towards the window. It was a bright and cloudless day outside, quite the opposite from her current mood. “I didn’t realize.”

“Well, I don’t tell you about my pen pals, do I?” Hector chortled. “I would’ve told you I was extending the official invitation and that he accepted, of course, but we haven’t had the opportunity these last few days.”

A tense silence followed when Hermione did not reply. She just kept stirring her tea in thought until her curiosity peaked.

“When did Riddle agree to the apprenticeship?” she asked.

“Friday night,” her father replied. So, Riddle had agreed to a job that would allow him in her home once every week, mere hours after her escape from him in _Secondhand Tomes_. Yes, that added up _perfectly_ , although it made Hermione feel very uneasy.

“Are you upset? Surely you don’t harbor any ill will towards Mr. Riddle? Everything seemed perfectly fine at dinner the other week.”

At his hopeful look, Hermione sighed and set aside her tea. “No,” she said between clenched teeth, trying to sound convincing as she added, “Mr. Riddle seems brilliant. I’m sure he will be a great assistant in the lab.”

Merlin, it physically _hurt_ to speak so nicely of him. She turned a small smile on her father, hoping it did not appear like grimace it truly was.

“Not as good as you, dear,” said Hector fondly. “I’m glad I have your support, though, despite us discussing this so late. He’ll be here at eleven, after all.”

Hermione nearly spit out her tea. “Eleven?” she cried, glancing to the grandfather clock in the corner. “That’s in ten minutes!”

“Yes,” hummed her father, unbothered. “I reckon he could use a cup of tea before we head down to the lab.”

Hermione’s heart was racing very fast all of a sudden. She could _not_ be in the same house as Riddle so soon after their unwelcome encounter on Friday! What would her father do if she told him Riddle had corned her, threatened her, and tried to forcibly read her mind? For some reason, she didn’t feel inclined to tell him until she had all the answers she needed. She also feared Riddle’s reaction to her tattle-telling. But how could she justify leaving her father here with him - a wizard potentially practiced in the Dark Arts? She did not want to leave them alone together, although she knew the house elves and even the deep ancestral magic in their home would not allow any harm to come to any member of the Granger family.

And if Riddle really thought Hermione knew how dark his magic was, why would he risk her spilling his secret by showing up at her home? She couldn’t help but feel that he was playing games with her, that this was some horrible trap.

“Well, I’ll…uh…leave you to it, then,” said Hermione abruptly, standing up and brushing the wrinkles from her robes. “I think I’ll just…go to Malfoy Manor or something.”

It was a good excuse. Perhaps she could actually address the subject of Tom Riddle with Abraxas, someone who knew him well.

“I thought you planned to spend the day in the garden?” asked her father with a knowing look. It held undertones of disappointment, knowing she was trying to avoid Riddle despite her kind sentiments from minutes ago.

“Er - later. I forgot that Abraxas agreed to help me…answer some questions for my project.”

“I didn’t realize Mr. Malfoy was so adept with Ancient Runes,” Hector hummed hastily into his teacup, his lips curling over the rim slightly.

“Oh yeah…one of the best in the class, I heard.”

She did not even think Abraxas _took_ Ancient Runes at Hogwarts.

“Well, Mr. Riddle will be gone by six, and dinner will be at seven as usual,” said Hector, opening to the Potions segment in the Daily Prophet. “What time will you be home?”

Hermione wanted to say at least by 6:01 then, but she just shrugged. “Sometime in the afternoon, probably,” she waved her hand, faking nonchalance. It was a lie though, and she would make up an excuse later as to why she arrived home just before dinner. The goal was to avoid Riddle at all costs.

With a kiss on her father’s cheek, Hermione was bustling out of the dining room and towards the parlor. She was dressed for the garden in basic flowing robes and flimsy boots - not for a day at Malfoy Manor. But still, without a second thought, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantle of the parlor’s red brick fireplace.

“East wing, Malfoy Manor!” Hermione cried, and she tossed the powder onto the logs. Immediately, the hearth expanded magically to accommodate her. She crouched on her knees and stuck her head in the green flames, feeling an uncomfortable pull, as if her head was being yanked on a dog leash. When she opened her eyes again, rubbing at an aching temple, she was in Abraxas’s bedroom. She could see the brown leather furniture of his sitting area where, luckily, Abraxas was sitting and reading from a Quidditch magazine. He looked down at the sudden sound of whooshing flames and Hermione's small cough. As he sat up, greeting her, Hermione realized he was shirtless.

Blushing, she asked frantically, “Are you busy? Can I come through?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied with a pinched brow, setting down his magazine. “Is everything alright?”

“No…well, I don’t know! Put on a shirt! I’ll be through in a moment.”

The last thing Hermione heard was Abraxas’s groan before she was pulling her head back through her own fireplace. She hissed at the feeling, rubbing again at her head. “There’s got to be a better way to do that,” she mumbled. Standing to her feet quickly, she dashed to the cloak rack, hoping to make it back to Malfoy Manor before Riddle decided to Floo in before her eyes.

Just as she reached her cloak, she realized she was too late. There was a whoosh of flames, and out of the corner of her eye, the fireplace was expanding. She saw a pair of black boots first, and then the long and lean figure of Tom Riddle stepped into the parlor. Clutching her cloak like a lifeline, Hermione stood very still. Perhaps, he would not notice her in the corner. But then she felt a suffocating and heavy presence seep into her bones, one that beckoned closer, and Hermione knew, by the lurch she felt in her own magic, that he would know she was in the room.

His eyes immediately found her, and a sneer crept up his handsome features as he dusted off his robes.

“Trying to escape already?” said Riddle, his chin jutting towards her traveling cloak.

“Perhaps,” Hermione replied curtly. “Very clever of you to take an apprenticeship under my father. Not trying to stalk and corner me again, are you?”

If he could be petty, so could she…

“Perhaps,” Riddle drawled, copying her, and fear lurched in her throat. Hermione shook her head, composing herself so as to berate him - something she had been waiting to do since Friday. But at the same time, she was frightened, and a large part of her knew she would have been safer never laying eyes on him again. However, he had purposefully slithered his way more permanently into her life, and she supposed now was the best time. Her father was across the hall if she needed protection, and the Floo was nearby if she needed to make a hasty getaway. The house elves were a call away, too. Taking a tentative step towards him, Hermione clenched her fists around her cloak before she stopped in her tracks. Riddle had beat her to it, advancing on her quickly.

But instead of violently cornering her against the wall like she expected, he simply shrugged out of his traveling cloak and reached behind her to hang it up on the rack. Still, his proximity was too close, so Hermione stepped away, donning her own cloak.

“I don’t know who you think you are, Mr. Riddle,” she began shakily, “but if you harm my father in any way - ”

“I’m not going to hurt your father, Miss Granger,” said Riddle, looking slightly offended. “Despite what I’ve said in anger towards you the last few times we’ve crossed paths, I don’t wish to harm you either.”

Hermione scoffed in response to this, crossing her arms. “You have a rich way of showing it, trying to force yourself into my mind after threatening and interrogating me the way you did on Friday.”

“I was just trying to get answers,” growled Riddle.

“So was I!” cried Hermione, throwing a hand up in exasperation. “That was, until you _stole_ my book.”

Riddle looked genuinely innocent and confused for a moment before a sneaky smile crept up his lips. He flashed her white teeth as he chuckled at her expense. Hermione huffed and clenched her jaw with grinding teeth, glaring at the tapestry of her family tree hanging on the wall.

“The last I checked, buying a book at a bookstore does not entail stealing,” said Riddle lightly.

“Oh, please,” scoffed Hermione. “You _know_ I was reading that book, and you know why!”

“Oh yes, your…necklace situation,” considered Riddle, feigning more innocence.

Hermione scowled at him, pushing past him and dramatically bumping him with her shoulder. Riddle laughed behind her.

“If you are curiously in the dark, Miss Granger, all you have to do is ask me what I know you are dying to know.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to know _what_ questions I have.”

“True,” hummed Riddle admittingly. “Like I said, I only wish to know what you know.”

Hermione turned to him abruptly, her hair moving loosely around her face from the limp chignon at the base of her neck. “Why do you need to know at all? Unless it is to cover your own tracks... Something to hide, Mr. Riddle?” she asked with a raised brow, ignoring the voice in her head that told her she was treading on dangerous ground. But the devil on her shoulder told her to keep treading, to get even and to join the game that Riddle was playing with her. “Is there something you don’t want me knowing?” she pressed.

Riddle’s face had gone cold, and his eyes narrowed into slits. He took a menacing step towards her, but Hermione stood her ground. “I warned you not to get in my way, Miss Granger. That day in the closet... Don’t you remember?”

Feeling bold, Hermione stepped towards him. “I remember,” she whispered up at him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Riddle, I’ll keep your secret…as long as you leave me alone.”

Riddle’s eyes wandered from the top of her head to the toes of her boots, falling on her eyes once more in a challenging leer that made Hermione’s breath hitch.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Granger.”

Hermione did not know what to say, but she felt very much in over her head. She had gone too far; she had pushed him too far. She stepped back, feeling her heartbeat banging like a drum in her chest, and glared up at him one last time. “Trinky!”

The little elf would have to be her means of escape, today. Trinky popped into the parlor with a sharp _crack_ , bowing immediately.

“Trinky, please escort Mr. Riddle to the dining room. Father is waiting for him,” said Hermione curtly, straightening her cloak and moving towards the Floor. She glanced over her shoulder to gauge Riddle's reaction.

Trinky bowed and ordered the new apprentice to follow her. With one final smirk at Hermione, one that was full of anything _but_ niceties, Riddle followed the elf from the parlor. Hermione took a deep breath, and then another, wondering what she had gotten herself into as she grabbed a handful of Floo powder and, announcing her destination to Abraxas’s bedroom, disappeared in a whirl of green flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I got this up much sooner than planned! 
> 
> Thank you all for the reviews and kudos...you keep me excited to write :) I'm excited for chapter four because it will be the first (somewhat) civil conversation between Tom and Hermione! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter! How about Abraxas? And what did you think about magic bonding? (Definitely let me know if that section was not clear. I had SUCH a difficult time writing it because I was pulling information that I thought made sense out of my ass. Let me know if it made sense at all, since it is somewhat important for the next few chapters, as well as explaining what's happened since chapter 2!)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think and see you in the next one x


	4. Garden of Snakes

As the days bled into mid-October, the weather grew from bearable to cold. It was nearly winter. The leaves that had been marvelous shades of reds and yellows for the last month were turning to wilting browns and beginning to fall. The grass on the Granger’s lawn was turning yellow, beginning to die and resemble the appearance and texture of hay instead. The Granger’s modest home had always looked lovely covered in snow, especially against the backdrop of the Chiltern Hills, but Hermione was sad to see the last remnants of autumn melt away.

She was just grateful the garden stayed the same, a warming charm cast over the premises to act as a greenhouse. Hermione loved the garden. Her mother had started it after marrying her father and moving into the house, and what had started as a couple of rose bushes, and some plants that doubled as potions ingredients, had grown into a full-blown nursery. Gardening was often a de-stressor for Hermione, even therapeutic at times. In the last few months, she had escaped to the gardens to pull weeds when she hit a rough patch in her Ancient Runes project. When she was younger, and perhaps Abraxas had played too hard and hurt her feelings, she would hide in the gardens and cry.

Today, she was hiding from Tom Riddle.

Or, at least, the garden was doubling as a chore and a hiding place for the day. Hermione always tended to the garden on Sundays, so it had become less of a chore and more of a routine. It was also the third Sunday that Riddle was visiting the Granger’s home for his apprenticeship with her father.

The first Sunday, after Hermione had been (belatedly) informed of Riddle's apprenticeship with her father, she hid at Malfoy Manor for the remainder of the day. It had been a fun day with Abraxas. They had played three games of wizard’s chess by the fire, enjoyed a late lunch, and then ventured out to the grounds to visit the horse stables and ride throughout the vast estate.

All day, however, Abraxas had turned down any inquiries Hermione made about Riddle. Knowing the two men were friends, she naturally hounded Abraxas with questions about what Riddle was like, if he had always been interested in a career in potions, and what he thought his intentions were. He never gave her a clear answer to any question. Abraxas was, however, surprised to hear that she had seen so much of Tom Riddle lately. He had known already about their original meeting at Hermione’s home and the dinner party that followed it, but he had been shocked when she described their run-in at _Secondhand Tomes_ and the new apprenticeship he had undertaken. Despite his obvious surprise to the situation, Hermione still could not shake the feeling that he also looked concerned. Any answer he added to the conversation, however, was simply that no, Tom Riddle had never expressed a desire to pursue a potions career. He told her that Riddle was smart and enjoyed many hobbies, and therefore should not be surprised that potions was one of his interests. Still, even Abraxas seemed uncomfortable with the knowledge that Riddle had taken an interest in the Grangers, and it made her feel even more on edge.

In the days since, Abraxas had not budged on the subject, only ever praising Riddle and telling her not to worry about his intentions, that it was just a potions apprenticeship. Hermione knew, though, that Abraxas still saw Riddle often. He told her so, anyway - one of the few things he _did_ admit. She couldn’t imagine the two men being friends - they were polar opposites - but she never said anything of the sort. The fact that they were friends, however, did keep Hermione from telling Abraxas about her necklace, bonding magic, and her theory about Riddle being involved in the Dark Arts. Hermione wanted to warn her friend, but she did not want to put him in danger either. The same went for Alfyn Lestrange, who had also skillfully ignored her inquiries into Riddle, despite Hermione knowing Alfyn hung around same circle as Riddle and Abraxas both.

That is where she had spent her second Sunday hiding, at the Lestrange manor with Eleanor Greengrass and Victoria Selwyn. They had enjoyed a relaxing day by the lake, as Alfyn’s family boasted quite a vast and stunning estate in Kentmere.

Today, though, she had nowhere to escape. Not only had the garden been neglected for the last two weeks, Hermione missed spending her Sundays at home. Truthfully, though, none of her friends were available to spend the day with her. Abraxas, specifically, had gone to Milan to shop with his mother and younger female cousins for the Hallowe’en ball the Malfoys were throwing in two weekend’s time. Hermione had seen them off the day before, mostly because Mrs. Malfoy wanted to see her dress in order to ensure Abraxas’s dress robes would match her color scheme.

Hermione giggled at the memory of Abraxas bristling with annoyance, the idea of a shopping trip with three women dreadful, as she trimmed off a dead hydrangea.

She was also beginning to feel slightly foolish - running away from her own home to hide from Riddle. Mentally, she refused to fear him, although sometimes she thought it was wise to. If she feared him, she would not be tempted to seek him out for the answers she craved. And yet that was all she wanted to do - seek him out. As a magic bonder, and additionally someone skilled in essence bonding, Riddle was the only one that knew what was happening to her. Her research had not been particularly helpful in offering clear solutions. Moreover, he had _stolen_ her book. _Ancient Runes: The Essence of Bonding Magic_ had been the only thing to offer Hermione any real insight into the magic in her necklace, and Riddle had taken that away from her. It irked her more than anything to think that he knew something she didn’t. And no matter how hard she tried, or how far she looked, she could not find a copy of the book anywhere. It was as if there was only one copy in the entire world and Tom Riddle had it.

She was nearly tempted to send a letter to Headmaster Dippet with a request to visit the Hogwarts library. If she could find it anywhere, it would be at Hogwarts.

Hermione let her thoughts wander as she crouched on her knees, picking up a pair of scissors to trim away the weeds around her collection of blackberry bushes - one of her favorites. Harvesting season was over, but they needed watering, so Hermione took up the can and sprinkled a thin layer onto the soil. It was, however, harvesting season for their apple trees. They had two rows of them, many of which were ready to be picked. With a grin, Hermione picked up her basket and began filling it with the ripe, red and green apples.

She enjoyed the solitude, especially when her cat, Crookshanks, slinked around her ankle, joining her. The orange cat walked along with her and laid in the grass if she took a particularly long time at a larger tree. Half an hour later, Hermione had filled two baskets, sent them off to the kitchens, and was halfway through a third when Crookshanks hissed suddenly and crouched down in a low, predatory position. She glanced down just in time to see the object of her scandalized cat’s ire. A small green garden snake was coiled at her feet. Hermione cooed, leaning down to take a closer look at what was obviously a newborn snake. Crookshanks hissed again and took off in a run, disappearing behind the blackberry bushes. Hermione stifled a snort at her cat’s behavior. She forced herself not to jump when the snake slithered up the side of her wicker basket, curling around the handle towards her hand.

Hermione gasped and left the basket on the ground, sitting down in front of it to put some distance between herself and the snake. She wasn’t afraid of snakes - there were often garden snakes in the nursery - but she did not particularly fancy the reptiles either. It was actually quite a dear little thing though, she decided, as it coiled tightly around the basket handle and looked up at her with slitted yellow eyes. Garden snakes were not dangerous, she knew, but Hermione still could not explain why she felt the need to reach out and pet the little thing. Its fangs were small but could still cause her discomfort if it decided to bite her. Yet, as the tip of her pinky finger gently and tentatively stroked its scales, the fangs made no appearance. The little snake made no move to attack her at all, actually. In fact, it rested its head against the handle of the basket and relaxed completely under her touch.

Hermione breathed an unbelieving laugh as she stroked along the snakes coiled back. She had touched a snake before, at the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley when she was little, but never an untamed one.

“Incredible creatures, aren’t they?” came a voice from her left. Hermione jerked towards the voice, recognizing it immediately before her eyes even landed on the standing form of Tom Riddle. He stepped further into the aisle of apple trees and walked towards her.

“I never thought much of them before meeting this little fellow,” said Hermione once she found her voice, her eyes flicking between the snake and the Slytherin. To her utter astonishment, Riddle sat down in the grass across from her. “It’s not six already, is it?” she asked, referring to why he was not in the lab with her father.

“It’s almost five. We finished early today,” Riddle replied, reaching out his own hand towards the snake. Without hesitation, the garden snake curled around his fingers and over his sleeve, coiling comfortably around his forearm.

Hermione’s jaw dropped, drawn to the scene as Riddle stroked long fingers over the snake’s head.

“Is befriending snakes a side effect of being a Slytherin?” she joked, which in its aftermath, was as much of a surprise to her as it seemed to be to him. They did not have a joking acquaintanceship, after all. Riddle looked up at her for the first time, eyes calculating.

“For some.”

He did not smile but said it so sharply that Hermione’s cheeks heated, and she grew even more uncomfortable than she already was. That was the first and last time she would make a joke in his presence, then.

“May I ask how you lost your way from the Floo all the way outside?” asked Hermione curtly, becoming very aware of how disheveled and dirty she must look in her skirt and top. He didn’t look as put together as usual either, as six hours in the lab over steaming potions had wrinkled his clothes and loosened the gel in his wavy dark hair.

“I saw you out the window,” replied Riddle nonchalantly. Hermione glanced toward the house. The Floo system in the parlor was not in direct view of the backyard at all.

“How long have you been there,” she asked with narrowed eyes, nodding her head towards the blackberry bushes where he had been standing.

“Only a few moments.”

She supposed she should believe him, since she had not felt his magic approaching until he stepped towards her. She could feel him now, though, as suffocating and captivating as ever.

“Why did you even come out here?” she huffed, moving to sit on her knees.

Riddle was staring down at the snake lovingly hissing up at him, rubbing its head against the sleeve of his robes.

“To explain myself.”

Hermione had not expected that. Not at all. She stared at him until he glanced down at her. He looked genuine, but his features still lacked the emotion that made her doubtful of his true feelings. She sat back on her heels, prepared to listen.

“To explain yourself?” echoed Hermione. “And here I thought you might have come to kill me after how boldly I spoke to you the other Sunday.” As she had just promised herself to never make a joke in his presence again, she said this very seriously.

Riddle smirked at her in a way that made her wonder if he had considered it.

“It’s been nearly two months since we met, Miss Granger. I just think it’s time that we talk. You have questions and so do I. Perhaps we can come to an agreement?”

“To what? Forgive and forget? I don’t think so -”

“Not to forget, although I do have some apologizing to do on my end.”

Hermione scoffed and crossed her arms. _Like hell, he did._ But intrigued, she said nothing and let him continue.

“I mean an agreement in terms of…sharing information; and then, if desired, we will go our separate ways.”

“Does that mean you would give up your apprenticeship with my father? You cannot honestly tell me you took that without malintent.”

“I, admittedly, expressed interest and took the position to get closer to you, but it turns out you are very difficult to corner,” said Riddle, and Hermione smirked despite the annoyance in his tone. “However, I have enjoyed working in the lab and learning under your father, and thus have no intentions to give up the apprenticeship.”

“Fine,” Hermione spat. “But if I am here, on a Sunday, as I am today, and we agree to never cross paths again, you will _not_ seek me out as you have done this evening.”

“Of course not,” Riddle replied calmly. “Although if your father invites me to dinner, I can only decline politely so many times.”

“I understand that,” hummed Hermione. “So, a civil conversation, for once, to settle our curiosity then…fine.”

Riddle nodded firmly, suppressing a victorious look that Hermione did not miss, as he lowered his hand to the grass where the garden snake began to uncoil from his arm. It did so slowly, as if savoring the feel of being petted and comfortably settled. The small snake looked up at its Slytherin counterpart, its head grazing the top of the ring he always wore as its green, scaly body unwound finally from around Riddle’s wrist. With a flick of its tongue, it brushed Riddle’s knuckles as if in a kiss, before slithering away, camouflaged in the grass. Riddle sat down in the grass, pulling one knee to his chest and stretching out the other leg.

“That snake liked you,” said Hermione, unable to help herself after watching the interaction curiously.

“So it did,” replied Riddle simply.

“Do most?” continued Hermione, tickling a theory that was suddenly itching at the back of her mind.

“I suppose. Does that surprise you?”

“It’s just…well, I didn’t take you for much of an animal person.”

Riddle’s lips twitched at this and Hermione’s couldn’t help but do the same. Yes, it was very entertaining to imagine Riddle with a litter of puppies. Highly unlikely, although the image was endearing, she supposed with a scowl.

“I’m not,” admitted Riddle. Hermione was unsurprised. “But I have always liked snakes.”

She had heard that before, from Abraxas in her first year, who was Riddle’s roommate and had never much liked snakes. Abraxas had always expressed his disdain to her, telling her of the Muggle orphan that brought snakes to the dormitories. The creatures always found him when they were outside on the grounds Abraxas had said. Hermione thought of the snake that had found her today, so unalarmed by her or Crookshank's presence, and only moments before Riddle had appeared.

“You’re a Parselmouth, aren’t you?” blurted Hermione.

Riddle glared at her in what could have been agitation or bewilderment. “How could you possibly know that?” he growled.

Hermione’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Oh, it’s true? Honestly, it was just a guess. That snake was just so familiar, or…comfortable with you - more so than me anyway. And, well, Abraxas told me you kept a pet snake in the dormitories in your third year. He said they always found you, somehow, and that you were fond of them. I hadn’t thought of it until just now, but he told me the snake treated you like a familiar, and I know that’s usually a myth - and always with cats…”

She was rambling, and Riddle was still glaring, so she trailed off into silence. He looked neither amused nor impressed by her deduction skills, and Hermione forced herself not to clam up under his cruel blue eyes.

“I usually don’t care for anyone to know that,” said Riddle quietly - dangerously quite.

Hermione swallowed thickly, her throat bobbing. “Why? It’s an interesting skill, despite the reputation it usually has, and it probably means you had very powerful ancestors.”

It was true: it is an interesting skill. However, it did unnerve her. It was usually a talent tied to dark wizards, which in this case, could very well be true.

“Yes, I suppose so, but this wasn’t the topic I had in mind for us to discuss.”

Riddle was being civil, at least, but he was still very short with her, as he usually was. Hermione nodded in response to his own curt reply, motioning him to go on. She was intrigued and unprepared for such a conversation, but she agreed that, after two months, it needed to happen. She was not getting answers any time soon, unless it was from Riddle himself. Of course, if he had let her read that Ancient Runes book, her curiosity would probably be sated by now.

“We should get to the bottom of what has occurred between us,” Riddle started, draping his arms over his knee. Hermione folded her twiddling fingers in her lap.

“I agree,” she said. “I’ll answer what I can as long as you answer _everything_ I ask.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed, his upper lip curling. “And why must I answer everything while you just answer ‘what you can’?”

“Because you stole my book,” ground Hermione between clenched teeth, “and therefore have given yourself the opportunity to learn while I continue to question what has happened to _me_.”

She scowled at the smirk Riddle now wore, a pompous one that mocked her for losing a source of information to him.

“Fair enough,” said Riddle. “I’ll merely start by asking what you think your necklace does.”

“We already spoke of this weeks ago in the bookshop -”

“Answer it again, then.”

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms. “Like I’ve already told you, and you’ve already discovered yourself, the necklace, for some reason, allowed me both to bond with my magic and essence bond without a spell.”

“So, you have heard about essence bonding.”

“Yes, I had a few minutes of bliss with _Ancient Runes: The Essence of Bonding Magic,_ before you took it from me,” said Hermione spitefully. “I know that essence bonding is a form of magic bonding that involves a party of two or more, therefore differentiating it from an individual magic bond, which is what has happened to me twice now - once with a runic blood ritual and again with the necklace. Essence bonding, although not as powerful as a passion bond, allows a witch or wizard to feel or be made aware of another’s magical essence, but only if that other person is bonded to their own magic, whether by spell or naturally. It lacks the power that passion bonding induces, such as feeling, or knowing, where their partner is, as well as sensing what their partner's emotions. In rare cases, apparently, telepathy is a side effect of passion bonding. However, research surrounding essence bonding only indicates the awareness of another's magic. A ritual does not need to take place between the bonded parties. For instance, if ten wizards and witches in a room of one hundred people are bonded to their magic and have cast the essence bonding spell on their individual selves, they will all be able to feel one another's magical presence, or essence.”

Hermione took a deep breath as she finished and blushed at the look of satisfaction, humor, and slight scorn on Riddle’s face.

“I heard about your perfect textbook answers from Professor Slughorn often,” said Riddle through a smirk, looking as if he was trying not to laugh. “He said so at Slug Club once, don’t you remember?”

She remembered well. Slug Club was mostly how Hermione had grown to be suspicious of Riddle at Hogwarts. She remembered scowling openly around the table at Slug Club meetings, not because of the awkward dinners, but because of how Riddle pretended to cling onto Professor Slughorn’s every word. Riddle would laugh heartily at everything Slughorn said and always adopted a professional and innocent tone for the whole group. Even worse is that it seemed to fool everyone; everyone except for her.

“Am I wrong?” snapped Hermione. So what if she was textbook smart? Was Riddle really going to mock her, acting as if he was not exactly the same?

“No, you are quite right. Your necklace, somehow, allowed you to magic bond and essence bond without a spell. That is rare, but what is even rarer is that you essence bonded and _touched_ , physically, my own magical essence. Do you know why or how?”

“Not really,” huffed Hermione.

“Your magic is untamed. You are not in control. Therefore, you reached out to the first thing that you could find, and that was me. Those that essence bond are usually in control of their magic because they are either natural magic bonders or have performed the magic bonding ritual enough times to feel comfortable enough to attempt essence magic. You read, I’m sure, about why essence bonding is usually looked down upon?”

“Yes,” nodded Hermione, leaning back on her palms and stretching her legs out beneath her skirt. “It is a consent issue. Those that perform the essence bonding spell may be able to feel any other witch or wizard bonded to their own magic. Therefore, anyone's magic is 'out in the open' per say, sometimes without their knowledge that those essence bonded can feel their magic. Many believe bonding with another’s magic should be solely tied to rituals of passion bonding. I agree, to an extent, but essence bonders are so rare that I don't think there is much to worry about. From my research the last few weeks, the essence bonding spell has never been used for harm.”

Riddle’s lips were twitching again, and Hermione’s scowl returned. If he didn’t want her answering his questions, why ask? If he was looking for simple 'yes' or 'no' answers, he had asked the wrong witch.

“Do you see the dilemma, then?” asked Riddle coolly, appraising her.

Hermione thought for a moment, looking to her exposed shins, which were growing colder even in the weather-warded gardens. She then to her basket of apples, cocking her head.

“Well, I essence bonded, which is loosely termed taboo. But since I don't agree with that label...no, I don't see the dilemma." Before he could answer, she added, "But so did you,” she turned the conversation towards him. “And you clearly essence bonded because you have already bonded to your magic.”

“I am. Naturally.”

“A natural? You mean you can bond with your magic naturally?”

“Yes. My powers manifested in my first year at Hogwarts. I grew up in an orphanage - in the Muggle world, as you well know. When I was there, my magic was not suppressed, per say, but limited. But what I really meant was that I am a natural at essence bonding.”

“What?” spluttered Hermione. She had not once entertained that idea. “That’s impossible.”

“Clearly not,” said Riddle, looking smug. “From many books, including the precious one I recently added to my collection,” - Hermione's lip curled - “it is impossible. Literature makes it out to be so... But I am living proof that it is not.”

“Wha…how?” was all Hermione could manage, her jaw slack.

Riddle only shrugged. “It was a natural occurrence, just like bonding with my magic was. I was eleven, a few months into Hogwarts, surrounded by people like me. I felt free, untainted by…Muggles and their way of life, and I was growing, magically and academically - much faster than my peers. It just happened, and from then on, I could feel my magic, train it, learn from it. I have been very adept with nonverbal and wandless magic because of it. Similarly, in my sixth year, new powers manifested as I grew stronger. Suddenly, I could feel everyone and _everything_ around me. Magical energies. I quickly learned this was called essence bonding.”

Hermione was too surprised to do anything more than stare at him, even as she searched for the right words. _Who was this powerful wizard in front of her?_

“I have _never_ heard of that happening naturally,” said Hermione after many beats of silence, “and I certainly didn’t read about essence bonding relating to magical energies in material items, either.”

“Well, somehow I can,” said Riddle with a shrug. “The Sorting Hat in Dippet’s office, the magical creatures in Professor Kettleburn’s classes, the charmed items that always whizzed on Dumbledore’s desk. Even some of the library books, especially in the Restricted Section - the darker books. I could feel the magic in all of them.”

“And you could feel people that were bonded with their own magic? Who?” Hermione was sitting up again, leaning forward towards Riddle, curiosity making her eyes brighter.

“A few of the professors, but never a student. Dumbledore’s was the strongest,” said Riddle with a small frown.

Hermione was not surprised by that, she supposed. Albus Dumbledore _had_ defeated Gellert Grindelwald, one of the most powerful sorcerers of all time, not three years ago.

“Wait,” gasped Hermione, realizing a huge, and obvious, insinuation of Riddle’s that she had missed. “You said you can feel magical objects, too. Then...this necklace? You must know -”

“I told you I did not know what magical properties the necklace held, and I wasn’t lying. But, yes, I can feel it.”

“What can you feel?” asked Hermione breathlessly. The moment the words were out of her mouth, he was closer, leaning towards her, reaching out with long fingers to brush over the jewelry at her neck. She flinched but did not pull away, letting his cologne and magic wash over her.

“It feels more and more like you every time I see you,” said Riddle, and Hermione swallowed thickly. “Which I don’t think is a particularly good thing.”

“Why not?” said Hermione, her nerves spiking.

“Because it feels dark, angry, and completely unwilling to let you go.”

Hermione stilled, looking up at Riddle who was so close to her that she could a brown speck in his right eye, reflecting the sunlight.

“Dark? You said that it wasn’t that day in the shop,” she accused hotly.

“It wasn’t,” Riddle said curtly. “At least, I could not feel it then, and so I did not lie by saying it was not a cursed object. It is one of the only magical objects I’ve failed to understand and feel, and it was also why I was so curious to know what its magical properties might be. But the first time I ever felt it was in your parlor the day I took the apprenticeship position. Before then, its magical essence was concealed.”

Hermione started, a feeling of dread sounding alarm bells in her head. “It was concealing its own magic?” 

“Yes.” Riddle’s fingers finally dropped away from her necklace and he sat back, her ankles nearly brushing his thigh. “That is very powerful magic in and of itself, but now it is no longer hiding its magic. It is dark, malevolent.”

Hermione could hardly breathe; hardly focus on anything he was saying. Her father had always told her to never trust something that could think for itself. Frantically, she reached behind her neck and tugged on the clasp, trying to pinch and pull it loose. It would not move. What if the necklace was slowly killing her, or infecting her in some horrible way?

“I don’t understand. _Nothing_ has felt off about it, or me…nothing. What does it want?” she asked, fear lacing her voice. Yet, Riddle’s features remained largely expressionless with the exception of his pursed lips.

“I do not know, but I have a theory. I also believe I can help you find out.”

He was offering her his help. It didn’t seem possible, but she was even more confused and warier than usual by the wizard in front of her.

“What if I don’t want your help?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” pressed Riddle, smirking. “I’m a _natural_ essence bonded that knows everything about bonding magic. In school, once I found out what was happening to me, I conducted enough research that may perhaps help you discover intentions of the magic in your necklace. I have studied various kinds of magic from all over the world that may help.”

Hermione sat silently in thought, reasons to either accent his help of reject him flooding her brain - all with valid points. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” said Riddle when Hermione made no move to answer him. “Agree to let me help you and I will breech the topic of discussion that you’re so afraid to let leave the tip of your tongue.”

She glanced up at him quickly before reverting her gaze down the aisle of apple trees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she huffed, squinting into the sunlight. His arrogant smirk grew out of the corner of her eye.

“Do indulge me, Miss Granger,” he chuckled. “You know just as well as I that you can feel my magical essence, and I can feel yours. I think you are smart enough to know what that means, and I do hope you don’t think me stupid enough to believe otherwise.”

Hermione swallowed. She did know what it means. It meant answers for her, albeit potentially dangerous ones that she’d be much better off knowing. But she already theorized about the type of magic he must practice to turn his magic so dark, and Riddle knew that. If he truly was a dark wizard harboring an equally dark secret, then he would have taken away her memories or killed her by now. Was he no longer afraid of her finding out? And if so, what had changed in the weeks since he had threatened her for discovering his secret? Perhaps she was simply mistaken about him all along. After all, he was not doing a very good job of concealing his secrets from her.

“Why would you make a deal that benefits me in both terms?” asked Hermione, turning back to face him. He was watching her intently, his usually dark hair looking light brown from the rays of sun swimming across his head. “I get answers about this necklace _and_ your magic, while you get nothing. That’s not a very good deal, is it?”

“On the contrary,” smiled Riddle. “It is a marvelous deal.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Whatever he said, it was not a ‘marvelous’ deal, which made her think Riddle knew something she did not.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Riddle, reaching over and plucking a ripe apple out of Hermione’s basket, “I’ll give you some time to think about it. I’ll wait for you outside of _Secondhand Tomes_ tomorrow at seven. If you decide you want my help, then I will give you your answers. If not, just tell me so, and I’ll leave you alone - although that could mean the necklace slowly kills you,” he finished with a smirk.

He wasn’t giving her much of an option, Hermione thought, and he clearly knew that. With powers like Riddle’s, where he could feel the magical core of _any_ object, he could discover just exactly what kind of magic was embedded in her necklace - with a bit of research and difficult spell work. Without him, how many options did she have? Research would be the only option, but she had no knowledge of the subject. All she knew about magic bonding she had learned from her Ancient Runes research. Essence bonding was just a term she knew in passing. She would be starting completely from scratch, whereas Riddle’s natural abilities meant he had years of knowledge under his belt. If she tried to use her knack for research and investigation all on her own, how far will the necklace have corrupted her by the end?

“Fine,” said Hermione in a tone of finality. To push her point, she shifted and stood to her feet. “I’ll have decided by tomorrow.”

“Lovely,” said Riddle smugly, standing to his own feet and rubbing the red apple against his pant leg. Hermione watched, annoyed, as he took a bite.

“How did you even know my new work schedule?”

“I know more than you think, Miss Granger. Sometimes, I think I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

Hermione crossed her arms and glared. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t,” shrugged Riddle with a ghostly smirk.

“Well, I haven’t seen you at the shop anyway, so how you even know I work there is beyond me.”

Riddle chuckled. “I’ve been giving you your space, Miss Granger, but I frequent the shop often. And your new boss likes to talk about you almost as much as your father. Perhaps I’ll come by tomorrow during my lunch break.”

Hermione’s lip curled in protest. “I’d rather you not, Mr. Riddle. Seeing you once tomorrow will already be quite enough.”

“Very well,” said Riddle simply. “But now that we have come to a semblance of an agreement, I see no reason why I should give you such tremendous space. After all, we’re helping each other, aren’t we?”

Hermione pursed her lips and moved the basket into the crook of her elbow as Riddle tossed his apple into the air, catching it swiftly before taking another bite. “I suppose you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I suppose I will,” said Riddle. “May I burden you to escort me to the Floo?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you can find it yourself.”

Riddle chuckled heartily as Hermione turned, plucking a few red apples from the closest tree and placing them in the basket.

“You’re not a very good host, are you?”

“Technically,” sniffed Hermione, “my father is your host. I am an unwilling resident opening my home to you.” Riddle smirked wider. “But I can show you to the nearest Apparition point.”

“I suppose that will do.”

Hermione sighed and set her basket down in the grass. “Then follow me.”

She turned again, this time leading him further away from the house, down the full row of apple trees. Riddle followed silently, but his presence was suffocating. At the end of the row was the entrance to a maze made of tall green bushes. Hector Granger was quite proud of it, as it was one of the only areas of maintenance that he enjoyed tending to in the gardens. He had watched them grow from ankle height, and Hermione loved the orange blossoms they sprouted in late spring. Inside the maze was a small fountain, a couple statues, and a few benches that Hermione enjoyed reading at.

Hermione led Riddle towards the center of the maze where the small fountain was sprouting water gently in a clearing, creating a peacefully relaxing sound.

“You can Apparate from this circle,” said Hermione, glancing over to see Riddle step up to her side.

“This seems a rather quiet and isolated area,” hummed Riddle, taking in his surroundings before his eyes landed on her, alight with mischief.

“I suppose so,” said Hermione with a blush rising on her cheeks, although she was not sure why. “I’ll bid you goodbye then. The warming charm on the garden doesn’t extend over here and I’m growing cold.”

Riddle’s eyes scanned her from head to toe, in her skirt and long-sleeved shirt. “I can’t imagine why,” he drawled lowly.

Hermione cleared her throat and took a step backwards toward the exit. “Well, until tomorrow then.”

Riddle descended immediately, making Hermione’s cheeks grow warmer as he was suddenly hovering over her, taking her right hand in his.

“Until tomorrow.” And he kissed her knuckles as he had done few times before, only this time her hand was stained with grass and dirt from gardening. Riddle must have not minded, or may have not even noticed, with how lightly his lips brushed her skin.

“Don’t fret about my offer,” Riddle continued, stepping away from her. Hermione folded her other hand over her tingling knuckles. “Whatever you might think of me, I am a man of my word.”

And with another smirk and a loud crack, Tom Riddle was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer to get up as I originally thought, and I apologize for the short length! This one serves as more of a filler chapter, but we found out something new about Tom, didn't we? I rewrote chapter four THREE times. This interaction was shorter, but important, and I originally had more dialogue before deciding I was giving up too much information and mystery too soon. Guess you all will have to wait a bit longer ;)
> 
> That being said, THANK YOU ALL for reading. The kudos and comments truly make my day, and I love speaking with you all! 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on this chapter, as Tom and Hermione's relationship could perhaps be taking a step in a new (for better or worse) direction!


	5. The Cursed Necklace

The following day, Hermione tried to stay occupied at work. _Secondhand Tomes_ was not particularly busy as it was a Monday, but there was plenty of inventory to take. Robert Ross, her new boss, left at noon when she arrived. He was due for an appointment at the Ministry, leaving her alone with the shop for the first time.

It was a long shift, and primarily quiet except for a few customers. Mostly, Hermione spent the day fretting over seeing Tom Riddle again. Seven o’clock, the time shop closed and Tom was to be outside awaiting her answer to his proposition, creeped nearer but was still hours away. At three in the afternoon, Cedrella Black stopped in the shop to visit with Hermione and see her new job location.

“This looks amazing,” said Cedrella as she took in the tall wooden ceilings and stone walls. “Right up your alley, huh?”

Hermione could not help but agree to both statements. It was right up her alley, and she had therefore enjoyed every minute of transforming the shop in the last few weeks. _Secondhand Tomes_ looked drastically different from the day she had first walked inside, so excited at the prospect of a new bookstore that she had left Abraxas in Diagon Alley. On opening day, the shop had been unkempt and unorganized, with unpolished floors and uninstalled bookshelves still wrapped in the paper it was delivered in. The books, nearly two thousand of them, had been in a state of disarray, stacked in piles since they could not be assembled, not to mention _completely_ out of order. However, Hermione knew potential when she saw it, and despite its disorder, the bookshop had been charming and delightful.

When Hermione had taken the job, she had informed Robert of her own vision and desire to make changes. The floors had been polished, shelves assembled, books organized in categories by row and then by author on the shelf. Hermione had used the charming oriental rugs and tapestries she had first noticed and used them as decoration around the shop. She had even helped Robert order furniture, creating a reading corners both downstairs and upstairs in the loft for customers that wanted to test out a book before purchasing. Now, _Secondhand Tomes_ was charming, cozy, welcoming, and easy to navigate. Those that did not want the bustling large business atmosphere of _Flourish and Blotts_ were coming to Robert’s shop. Moreover, _Secondhand Tomes_ was cheaper and offered a wider range of options that one would not normally find in a bookstore like _Flourish and Blotts_. Hermione knew this firsthand after her discovery of the Ancient Runes and essence bonding tome.

“How about a tour?” asked Hermione, eager to show Cedrella around. She was the first of her girlfriends that had stopped in to see her new workplace. To be fair, though, out of all of her friends, Abraxas was the only one that even _somewhat_ liked to read, and he had only visited when Hermione said the shop had a whole row of Quidditch theory books. 

Cedrella seemed charmed by the new bookshop just as much as Hermione was, and when she led her down the very same row of Quidditch books that Abraxas had perused, Cedrella decided to make a purchase.

“Oh, Septimus has been looking for this autobiography for ages!” Cedrella exclaimed.

Hermione could not help but giggle. “My mind always goes to Mr. Malfoy when you say that name,” she said.

Cedrella cracked a smile. “I know, and I’m sure they’re both equally miffed that they share the same name.”

Hermione shook her head, curls bouncing. “You couldn’t find more polar opposites anywhere,” she said with a grin as Cedrella nodded in agreement. “Your Septimus is one of the most carefree and kindest people I’ve ever met, but just the other day I was at Malfoy Manor, and Mr. Malfoy actually grunted at me in greeting!”

The two girls burst into giggles.

“He’s a hard egg to crack, I’ve heard.”

“Well,” huffed Hermione, “he’s only known me my whole life.”

“He likes you, Hermione,” reassured Cedrella with a humored lift of her thin black eyebrows. “It’s no secret that he and your dad want you to marry Abraxas.”  
  


Hermione scoffed. “I know, but my dad and I settled on an agreement years ago that I would _never_ be forced into an arranged marriage. I have his word.”

Cedrella tried to hide a mischievous smile that Hermione did not miss. “Would you marry Abraxas, though? On your own terms?”

Hermione thought for a moment, reorganizing a few Quidditch books that were out of order from a previous customer.

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “He’s handsome, and we’ve known each other since we were children, so we get along just fine. But romantically? I mean…he’s handsome so -”

“Yes, you’ve already said that -”

“ - not difficult to imagine it…”

“But he’s still your best friend,” said Cedrella.

“Well…yes. I mean, we don’t feel that way about each other, you know? Sure, we can acknowledge each other as attractive, but…”

“What?” laughed Cedrella. “Is ice blonde hair, beautiful gray eyes, and tall and fit not your type?”

“I don’t know!” cried Hermione, growing flustered. She did a quick glance around the shop to make sure no one had walked in and could overhear their conversation. Luckily, it was still empty.

“Then what is your type?” asked Cedrella, grinning and pulling another book off a shelf.

Hermione thought in blushing silence, an image of dark brown hair and deep blue eyes flashing through her mind before she cleared it with a firm shake of her head.

“I don’t know,” she replied firmly, unconvincingly.

“Mhm…” hummed Cedrella. “Well, let me know when you find out.”

“Maybe I will next weekend,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“What’s next weekend?”

“The Malfoy’s Hallowe’en ball. Abraxas asked me to go with him.”

Cedrella’s mischievous and knowing smirk immediately returned. “Did he now?”

“As friends!”

“Sure…”

Hermione huffed in exasperation and rolled her eyes. “Never mind all that! I wish you could come.”

“And be fed to the blood-traitor-hating, pureblooded wolves? No thank you.”

Hermione did not miss the subtlety sad tone behind Cedrella’s otherwise firm and joking words.

“Not all of us are -”

“Hermione!” laughed Cedrella, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know that! I trust you keep good friends. Plus, I’m a pureblood, and so is Septimus and the rest of the Weasleys. We just believe different things.”

“I wish everyone could get their heads out of the past,” sighed Hermione.

“Me too,” frowned Cedrella, looking away from her. Hermione knew she was thinking of her family.

“Have you spoken, at least, to your sisters?” asked Hermione. It had been two years since Cedrella had been banished from her family for loving Septimus Weasley and associating with his family. From what Cedrella had told her, there were few in her family, close or distant, that were sympathetic to her disownment.

“Actually, my youngest sister, Charis, wrote to me the other day,” said Cedrella, a fond smile forming crinkles in the corners of her aging eyes.

Hermione had met Charis Black in passing before. She was stuck up, but kind enough, and older than Hermione (All of the Black sisters were; Cedrella was almost exactly ten years her senior).

“What did she have to say?” asked Hermione.

“She’s engaged,” said Cedrella happily. “And my older sister, Callidora, is pregnant again.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard.”

“They’re announcing it in the paper tomorrow. Charis thought I should know first. She’s reached out once before. She says she misses me but doesn’t wish to defy my parents.”

“That’s very sad,” Hermione frowned. “But perhaps when she moves out you can see more of each other again? Who is she engaged to?”

“Caspar Crouch,” replied Cedrella with a smile.

Hermione smiled. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? They are a much nicer family than most purebloods.”

“I know. I think they’ll be more understanding. But I’m happy for her. She seems to really love him.”

Hermione couldn’t imagine an arranged marriage, even if there were feelings involved. How could you go on knowing you had a choice to meet someone else, to be with someone else? Still, Hermione couldn’t shake the thought of the wizarding world expecting her and Abraxas Malfoy to marry. She could admit that it was a good match. Abraxas was expected to marry like most purebloods, and she knew his parents did have some say in it all, but they still trusted him enough to date for himself. Abraxas had never been one to put himself in company with the wrong people anyway, only popular purebloods in society. Still, he was kind to everyone he came in contact with - probably why he was named Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor in _Witch Weekly_. But Hermione knew he was more than his titles. She never knew him to be prejudiced, although maybe he just stayed quiet around her because she wasn’t. She could respect him for wanting to do right by his family’s name, but Hermione hoped that Abraxas would always think for himself - marry who he wanted to, whether she was Sacred Twenty-Eight or not.

Cedrella ended up purchasing two Quidditch books for Septimus Weasley, saying they could be his pre-wedding gift. The two women talked for another half hour about Cedrella’s upcoming winter wedding, which would be at Septimus’s family home. Hermione was excited for the day, offering to help Cedrella in any way that she could since she wasn’t going to have a wedding party.

“Maybe you could bring _Mr. Malfoy_ ,” Cedrella had cooed as Hermione laughed her out of the shop.

But Abraxas, Cedrella’s wedding, and the Hallowe’en ball were far from Hermione’s mind as the hours ticked by. All she could think about was Tom Riddle and the answer she would soon give him regarding accepting his help with her (possibly cursed) necklace. Finally, with an hour until closing, Hermione pulled herself away from a book that she had been trying to read but could not retain due to her racing thoughts. Still, it seemed like it would help with her project, which had been stumping her immensely lately, so she checked the book out for herself at the front desk. It was an older tome on runic healing magic, which had been the focus of her extra-curricular studies since seventh year and the inspiration for her project. Hermione had wanted to be a Healer since she first read about healing magic at Hogwarts. When they had breached the topic again in her Ancient Runes class, she had been surprised by the potential runes had in healing magic, and even more by the gap there was in literature and research. She had taken on project after project in the year and a half since graduation, researching and writing and theorizing, but no one was interested in the topic let alone trusting of a recent graduate - and a woman - studying such difficult material.

The wizarding world was far behind the Muggle world, where Hermione had heard of female nurses on the front lines of the second Muggle World War. It was only in the last two decades that witches were starting to become employed in higher positions at the Ministry. Furthermore, these women were older and more experienced, leaving little room for young graduate prospects. Hermione’s application to the Ministry had been rejected, and St Mungos Hospital had told her there was no opening in their research department for women currently - only desk jobs. Hermione would be damned if she gave into the system to work a desk job . She wanted to research and write and theorize and invent and propose all that she researched to people that believed in her.

Hermione’s research, she thought, was unique. Combining runic magic with healing magic was rarely heard of, and only in indigenous cultures - or so she had read. Native science books had taught her much about the subject, but Great Britain remained ignorant. Runic magic allowed a wider and better understanding of maladies and injuries and offered quicker healing results compared to the most basic of healing spells, balms, and potions. However, this was only possible if the spellcaster had completely conquered runic magic, which was nearly unheard-of. Runic magic was still frowned upon for how dangerous it could be, especially when performed on someone else. It was quick and provided long-term remedies, but it wasn’t the safest option. But it could be. Hermione, through her research, wanted to prove that if a Healer was skilled at conquering runic magic, Healing as an entire field could be changed.

There was so many unknown diseases, curses, and injuries that went unsolved, resulting in unnecessary death or life-long disabilities. Hermione had found cases like these and was beginning to apply them to possible solutions with runic magic. It would change the game if runes could one day be used to cure, for example, dragon pox, a werewolf bite, or the effects of several dark curses. Hermione could only dream of her research being used to further this agenda.

With her bag packed for the day, Hermione went about closing the shop during the last half hour of her shift, charming the feather dusters to clean the shop while she manually swept with a broom. Hermione thought cleaning sans magic would take her mind off of Riddle’s impending arrival, but it didn’t work.

She had been torn over how to answer him since yesterday evening, and still questioned her final decision. He had offered her a strange deal, one that benefitted her from both sides. If she accepted his help with her necklace, he would answer all of her questions, but if she refused him, he would leave her alone. Both were tempting outcomes. The idea of going their separate ways was intriguing, but so was using his intelligence and natural magical abilities to her advantage.

If what he said was true - and she had considered _many_ times that he was lying - then her necklace was affecting her in some way - in a dark way. Riddle said he had a theory and that his natural ability to essence bond could aid them in deciphering it. Of course, Hermione had her own theory, one that she could use and solve on her own. But what if it was the wrong theory? What if reading and studying wasn’t enough, and by then - whatever this dark necklace was doing to her - it was too late?

The worst possibilities ran through her mind: infection, disease, curse, death. The necklace could be slowly poisoning her, killing her. Maybe _that_ was why it would not come off her neck...because it only would once the job was done.

Hermione could not help the tears that blurred her vision for a moment. She swallowed them down as she vanished a pile of dirt and dust with her wand. For the first time in a long time, she was scared. Would she hurt someone? Would Abraxas, Cedrella, Victoria, Eleanor and Alfyn have to watch her slowly become ill as a curse swept through her body? Would she die and leave her father behind with no family or heir?

The consequences and possible, horrid outcomes made her feel like she had no option at all.

So, when seven o’clock came, Hermione wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or worried when she didn’t see Tom Riddle standing outside of _Secondhand Tomes_ like he promised. He seemed like the very prompt type, but she decided she would not linger on the thought of him. Instead, she finished up in the shop, turning the sign to ‘ _Closed’_ on the glass front door and straightening up the window display before heading into the back room to make sure the alley door was locked. When everything was straightened up, she switched off the lights and headed back into the main shop, prepared to grab her things and leave.

Riddle was standing by the front desk next to her bag, looking calm and collected with a brown shopping bag around his elbow.

Hermione froze with a start.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, swallowing thickly before moving towards him. She glanced curiously at the bell above the front door, which had not even rung to announce his arrival.

“Excuse my tardiness,” he said, ignoring her statement as he held up the paper bag on his arm. “I remembered I was out of tea at my apartment.”

“Oh,” Hermione replied dumbly before realization struck her. “W-We’re going to your flat?”

A smirk curled up Riddle’s lips, making him look devilishly handsome in the shadowed, dim light of the shop. “We... Does that mean you want my help?”

“Er…yes, I think I would.”

“Well then we need somewhere private to perform the necessary magic to decipher the necklace’s powers. Did you think we would do so in a public place?”

“Well, yes…I don’t know,” huffed Hermione, knowing she would feel much more comfortable in public. “I didn’t realize we would be getting started right away.”

“The sooner the better,” shrugged Riddle.

Hermione supposed she agreed, but the turn of events did not help her nerves, which spiked at an alarming rate. His _apartment_? Hermione wondered if, for her safety, she should have told someone who she was potentially meeting with tonight. She could have told Cedrella when she had visited, or her father. She could have lied and said Riddle was helping her with her runic healing project. Perhaps the excuse would work from now on. Her father no longer waited on her for dinner on Mondays because of her work schedule, but she still joined him in his study before retiring to bed. He may wonder where she was, and if Riddle harmed her he would never know…

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione’s head snapped to attention. Riddle was staring at her intently, holding out her bag between them.

“Are you alright?” he asked, somehow already sounding bored. “You look pale.”

“Fine. What did you say?”

“I asked if you are ready to go.”

“Oh…ok,” said Hermione, breathlessly and hesitant. She took her bag and looped it around her shoulder before following Riddle from the shop. With her wand, she shut off the lights and stepped into the cool evening air. Taking the key from her bag, she locked the door, wiggling the handle before turning expectantly towards Riddle.

“Why do you use a key instead of a spell?” he asked with a raised brow.

“The key and lock are spelled. One can only open the locked door with the key. No spells work here, therefore eliminating the chances of robbery.”

Riddle’s lips twitched. “Unless one breaks the glass.”

Hermione shifted her feet and crossed her arms as she tilted her chin up at him. “Planning to break into my shop?”

Riddle actually smiled but did not answer as he held out his arm. “Shall we? We can walk from here.”

Hermione did not know how she felt walking to his flat arm in arm, and she hesitated long enough for the blue of Riddle’s eyes to grow stern and exasperated. She took his chivalrous arm, unwilling to wrap hers completely through the crook in his elbow since it would only pull them closer. Instead, she let her hand wrap gently around the taut muscle above the inside of his elbow as he began to lead her down the narrow and cobbled street of Diagon Alley.

She felt odd touching him and grew exceedingly uncomfortable as her magic lurched searchingly next to him. She could not feel him as she usually could, but she was aware that his magic was there, however deeply hidden.

Diagon Alley was charming at this time of night, not especially busy but not quiet either. The alley was beginning to empty of shoppers, but as Riddle turned right at Gringotts onto a different side street, the covered patios of restaurants and pubs were booming with chattering customers enjoying an evening out.

It did not go unnoticed to Hermione, either, that they received unusual looks from passersby. She looked up at Riddle, about to ask if he noticed the stares, but when she saw him, she understood why. It was him, she realized, as she openly stared at him. He stood confident and tall as he guided them down the street, handsome and professional in his black business robes. He simply created a presence that was impossible to ignore, with his hard and expressionless stare, piercing blue eyes, dark hair and pale skin. Hermione looked down at her professional but boring pencil skirt and silk button-up blouse beneath her warm, camel colored coat. With unruly, bouncy curls, soft features, and a freckled nose, Hermione thought she looked rather unremarkable next to Riddle. Perhaps that was why everyone was staring at the pair of them. She did not look like she belonged on the arm of Tom Riddle.

Unconsciously and unaware, Hermione gripped Riddle’s arm tighter as they passed by a group of women around their age, all who shot a glare in Hermione’s direction.

“Uh,” she muttered, breaking through the silence that had enveloped them for several minutes, “how long have you lived in Diagon Alley?”

Riddle glanced down at her as they turned a corner into a new, darker alley, one looking to be full of apartment buildings and townhomes. They must be at least three blocks from Diagon Alley, but she had not seen the street name.

“Since the late summer of 1945. I stayed with a friend until I got the job at Borgin and Burkes.”

Hermione tried to find a response, but could not, and so they fell into silence once more. Riddle stopped at a charming building front that had ivy growing up the side of the stone. They ascended the few steps to the entrance, only stopping when a small voice called,

“’Ello, Tom!”

Hermione and Riddle glanced up at the same time. On the second floor of the building, an elderly lady with a kind smile was leaning out of her window, tending to her flower box.

“Ms. Fullsworth,” Riddle greeted with a charming smile of his own that reached his eyes. Hermione raised an intrigued eyebrow. “I hope you’re in good health?”

“Me back and hands is aching today, Tom, but I’ll be alrigh’,” she replied. “Who migh’ be the lovely guest you’re bringing home?”

Riddle turned to her expectantly, nodding at her slightly to introduce herself.

“Hermione Granger, ma’am.”

“Well, I remember when I looked like you, Miss ‘ermione. All pretty and unwrinkled.” Ms. Fullsworth grinned at her and Hermione giggled. “You better keep a tight leash on 'er, Tom, or the other boys will try an' snatch her away!”

Hermione giggled again at the woman’s rambling, but Riddle cut her off by gracing her with an intense stare and a taunting smirk.

“I will,” he replied softly. Hermione didn’t think Ms. Fullsworth heard as she swallowed and looked away from him. “Feel better, Ms. Fullsworth.”

“Good evening, you two!”

Hermione waved in response to the older witch as Riddle pushed open a heavy wooden door into a small foyer with a staircase. Hermione released her hold on his arm so they could walk through the door separately. Instead of ascending the spiral staircase, Riddle led her down the stairs back to street level. There was only one apartment down here, and Riddle reached for its door with a hand. At his touch, the doorknob turned, and the door cracked open.

“No key or spell?” asked Hermione, referring to his earlier inquiries about how she locked up _Secondhand Tomes._

“It’s a bonding spell, of sorts. It recognizes my magic.”

“Interesting,” Hermione hummed, stepping past him when he opened the door wide and motioned her inside.

“A spell of my own creation,” said Riddle, shutting the door behind him. “I’ll teach you.”

Inside was a modest flat; the perfect size for a man living alone. They were standing in a living room that was comfortable, but mostly bare. There was a couch, a tall lamp, a coffee table, and next to the entrance by the Floo, a tall shelf stacked tightly with books. Between the bookshelf and the door was a coat stand where Riddle stripped off and discarded his cloak. Hermione shimmied out of her own coat when he held out an expectant hand. Her gaze wandered to a small kitchen that looked impeccably clean, with a small round table and two plain wooden chairs. Between the living room and kitchen was a small hallway where Hermione could see two closed doors - a bedroom and a bathroom, probably.

“You have a nice flat,” said Hermione, watching as he stepped into the room and turned on the lamp.

“It gets the job done,” he said, looking indifferent. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Hermione. She was trying not to ponder on the unimaginable occurrence unfolding: the fact that she was in Tom Riddle’s apartment, and he was playing the host, asking if she wanted tea. Since the day she had disrupted Riddle and her father’s business meeting, she could have _never_ seen this coming.

He was flitting about the flat now, pale yellow wand in his hand. He moved gracefully, as if his feet weren’t even touching the floor. His bag was unwrapped and whatever he had bought was levitating towards a cabinet as the stovetop was turned on for the kettle.

“May I use your loo?” she asked, mostly because she felt awkward standing in his living room and watching him. She was also suddenly very aware that she hadn’t looked in a mirror since she left home that morning.

“First door on your left,” Riddle called over his shoulder.

Hermione made a dash in that direction, eager to steal a few quiet moments to herself to digest that she was indeed here, in Tom Riddle's flat, and had formally accepted his truce. The door shut loudly behind her and she leaned against it, flicking the light on in the bathroom. It was as ordinary as the rest of his home, with brown wood cabinets and a rather spacious shower with white subway tile. She took in a couple desperate gulps of oxygen before moving to unzip her skirt. After washing her hands, she assessed her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. She combed her fingers through her hair, which was luckily still holding its expensive product well. It was the mascara smudged beneath her eyes that was the most in disarray, and she wiped it away before turning side to side, glancing over her shoulders to make sure everything was in its place. She looked flushed and nervous, but fine and plain otherwise. She checked the hem of her skirt for her wand, reassured that it was still in its place. Much to the house-elves annoyance, Hermione always sewed pockets in her clothes to stow her wand. Constant vigilance, Professor Dumbledore had once said.

With another minute of hesitation, Hermione left the loo and returned to the kitchen. The tea was making itself now, although Riddle was nowhere to be found. Figuring he must be in the bedroom, which was slightly cracked open now, Hermione stepped over to his bookcase and perused the shelves. He had many of the same books and tomes that resided in her own library - even the darker ones, which did not really surprise her.

Reading about dark magic did not scare her. Knowledge did not make a dark wizard; action did. Riddle’s magic, dark and destructive, had not evolved into its poisonous form from simply reading. If he was using the magic inside his Dark Arts books, then it was no longer about knowledge, but power. If he practiced the Dark Arts, like she assumed, then it was inexcusable.

Her fingers ran across a chained copy of _“Magick Moste Evile”_ which she had read several times. It was informative, but liberally so, since it did not include any dark spells, choosing only to describe them. Hermione had never read a tome that included spell work for dark magic; her parent only ever allowed books that educated, not corrupted.

With a startling realization, Hermione scanned the shelf frantically for the Ancient Runes book Riddle had bought. It was not there. She scowled deeply, her throat actually bubbling in a growl. Perhaps it was in his bedroom or his bag, she thought as she glanced to a briefcase lying on the couch. She would not dare look through his things, though - at least not with him in the next room.

She found, perhaps, something even more interesting when her eyes landed on the dark purple spine of a book with metallic black letters that read, _“Secrets of the Darkest Arts”._

It was a work by Owle Bullock, who she had read before, but had only heard rumors of this specific book. Without thinking, she took it from the shelf. It was in very good condition, brand new or barely touched, as the pages were still stiff and unwrinkled when she opened it. The table of contents was alarming to say the least, and Hermione turned to the first chapter on hexes, reading over an incantation that caused someone’s blood to boil in their veins. The illustrations were equally disturbing. Hermione was not surprised why her mother and father had never allowed this tome in the house.

“I hope you are not planning to use any of those curses on me.”

Hermione put the book back on the shelf, feeling intrigued by what she had read and seen, but also ill. She turned to Riddle, who was standing behind her in the most casual clothes she had ever seen him wear. He had ditched his business robes in lieu of a pair of black trousers and t-shirt for comfort. She watched him as he moved to the fireplace next to the bookshelf, lighting warm flames with his wand before moving toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing with a book like that, anyway?” asked Hermione, hoping she could fish for answers. She followed him into the kitchen.

“Educational reading,” said Riddle, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She saw Riddle’s shoulders shake momentarily, perhaps in a silent chuckle, and noted the stretch of his shirt across the broad width of his upper back. He turned; Hermione swallowed and looked away as he carried and levitated over a couple mugs, the hot tea, and a few mason jars.

“And why would you ever have reason to doubt me, Miss Granger?” he asked with an innocent upturn of his lips as he sat down at the table. A steaming mug of brown liquid was placed in front of her the moment she sat down, and she wrapped her hands around it appreciatively.

Hermione met his stare and raised a well-groomed eyebrow. “I think you know why, Mr. Riddle,” she said, reaching for the cold jar of milk. “And I was under the impression that you may even tell me - as part of our agreement, you know.”

Riddle flashed a smirk as he tipped a spoonful of sugar into his own porcelain mug. “Ask and you shall receive.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, her mouth was very dry, and she wondered if she could find her voice at all. Finally, _finally,_ she would learn the truth. For better or for worse, she would know who and what Tom Riddle was. It would either send her running or be enough leverage to stay and let him help her. Finally, he would confirm if her theories about him was simply anxious overthinking, or if she had been right all along. Her gut feeling was rarely ever wrong, after all.

Hermione schooled her features and set down the spoon she had been stirring her tea with. She folded her hands in her lap, begging them not to shake, and hoping her voice wouldn’t either.

“That first night, when my necklace's powers manifested…” began Hermione thickly, “…and I could feel your magic…”

Riddle was looking at her with a blank expression, which unnerved her more than his previous smirking. Hermione swallowed and glanced to a strand of dark hair that was beginning to fall from its groomed style onto his forehead. She did not know how to word such an accusation, and what if she offended him? She was making an insinuation, but she could be wrong. An insinuation was all she had to go on, really. She had nothing to back up her theory. What did she have as evidence, other than _feeling_ his magic was dark? She was a newly borne magic bonder, untrained and uncertain - not to mention her lack of knowledge surrounding the peculiar subject of essence bonding. She did not understand and could not yet control her own inner magic, let alone decipher _his_. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding -

“I want to hear you say it.” Riddle had spoken firmly, and Hermione looked back to him, distracted by her own thoughts and his loose fringe.

“Your magic,” she blurted, starting again, “it was…” A gulp and a wringing of hands. “It was unlike anything I had felt before.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“It was…a pull.” It was true, wasn’t it? Not exactly what she had been meaning to say, but it tried to tempt and manipulate her closer every time his magic was malignantly present. “A dark pull, one that I couldn’t help because I can’t control my magic. It was why I…my magic touched you that night.”

He already knew that, of course. They had spoken about it in _Secondhand Tomes_ all those weeks after the dinner.

“A dark pull?” said Riddle, emotionless, unsurprised. His features remained firm as she surveyed his expression.

Hermione nodded. “Like how I imagine dark magic to feel like.”

“Describe it. Honestly.”

She glanced to her hands, then to Riddle’s lips -pressed in a firm line - and then to her tea, growing colder by the passing minute.

“It was…like poison,” she said softly, staring at the sugar jar. “Dark, dirty, tempting,” Hermione blushed at the second meaning behind her chosen words. “Like a snake, slithering around you and waiting to strike, to infect and corrupt and harm.”

She did not know what else to say. Hesitantly, she looked up to Riddle. He was staring at her, his cheek twitching as if he was grinding his teeth, his jaw clenching. His lips were parted, his eyes darker and harder than she had seen them before. His hands were interlocked on the table by the sugar jar, one finger stroking the black stone of the gold ring he always wore - perhaps a fidgeting habit he had, although Hermione could not imagine Tom Riddle ever fidgeting.

“Are you accusing me of something, Miss Granger?”

Hermione began shaking her head frantically, her eyes growing wider as a voice in her mind cried _“Yes, you are!”_ Somewhere in the deep recesses of her head, alarm bells were ringing.

“I’m not…maybe?”

Riddle smirked, his eyes mocking. “I want to hear you _say it_ ,” he drawled.

Her bottom lip was pulled between her teeth as her mind raced, heart pumping blood quickly into her cheeks. “Are you a dark wizard?”

Silence. The crackling of the fire was all she could hear besides her mind screaming at her to _takeitback, takeitallback, hide, run, apologize._

Riddle was staring at her, and the petting of his ring had stopped. She met his hard gaze reluctantly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. His eyebrow twitched, then his lips. Suddenly, he was laughing, a beautiful and haunting sound, his head thrown back and chest shaking. His teeth flashed white, pulled back in a rather dashing way that had Hermione staring at him both in awe and alarm.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, to the door, the exit, and then back to him. Riddle’s head bobbed forward so that she could see his eyes, wrinkled at the sides with laughter. At the sight of her uncomfortable and alarmed features, he only laughed harder, and she realized how empty the sound really was. But then it dissolved quickly into a chuckle.

“What?” she finally gasped out, dumbly.

Riddle ran a hand down his face, wiping the humor from his features, but his grin remained. His fingers combed through his hair. He was handsome and unnerving all at once.

“A dark wizard?” he asked. “We went to school together, Miss Granger, and now I work with your father. Do you really think that low of me, that I could put on such a deceiving act?”

“Yes,” Hermione scoffed immediately. Riddle’s features hardened. “We did go to school together, so I know you’re a chameleon - a very good actor. I have no doubts you have been putting on a show for me ever since we met that day in my father’s study.”

Riddle’s head bowed slightly as if to say _touché._ “But my superb acting skills -" Hermione rolled her eyes towards the living room "- are not why you have made such an accusation, I presume? You think my magic is dark, and therefore I am.”

Hermione’s silence seemed to be the only answer he needed. 

“We have told one another before that we do not shy away from subjects of darker magic, have we not?”

They had. She had admitted she read books that were considered to be taboo, that her parents had never kept the subject out of the house, just carefully supervised.

“ _How can we succeed in not letting the Dark Arts tempt us if we know nothing about it?”_ She had asked him that the day she had purchased the necklace from him in _Borgin and Burkes_ after he had asked, mockingly, if she had read the author Godelot’s works. _“Knowledge is not dangerous unless we let it become so,”_ Riddle had responded. She had agreed with him, and still did. But what if Riddle, who read the same books as she, let that knowledge become advantageous? What if it had driven him into power-hungry madness, just like many wizards and witches before him? Had he used his knowledge for the wrong reasons?

“I remember,” said Hermione finally.

“As you saw on my bookshelf, I am not afraid of the Dark Arts,” said Riddle, his eyes calculating her response.

“You should be,” Hermione retorted immediately. “Those books, that knowledge, is there so we can understand it and learn why we should not abuse it, why we _should_ be frightened of it.”

“Do not be afraid of magic, Miss Granger,” said Riddle firmly. “Not only will that hold you back academically, but it may put you in danger. I am not afraid of magic, and therefore, have never seen reason not to study and practice the Dark Arts.”

“Practice?” asked Hermione incredulously, pushing away from the table in alarm. Her tea was not even steaming anymore.

“How else can you learn? I practice on my own, and not on other people, I assure you,” he said with a tinge of derision, and it soothed her slightly. “But it comes at a price.”

“It taints your magic,” she deducted, adding narrative to her thoughts.

Riddle bowed his head in confirmation. “As you have already stated, learning dark spells takes a toll on your magic. It darkens your every desire; it changes you and tempts you to learn more and gain power. It tries to weaken you too, to belittle your control.”

Hermione was hanging onto every word, curious and frightened. “How do you fight it?”

“I’m in control of my magic,” Riddle said nonchalantly, sounding quite bored and careless despite the subject in question. “I stay in control of my inner magic, my mind, my strength. My goal is to understand the Dark Arts, not to overcome it.”

This, again, soothed her growing list of negative thoughts. Perhaps he was not the evil dark wizard she had presumed him to be, but she could not ignore the fact that his education in the Dark Arts had changed him - if the tainted and dark presence of his magic was any example. She asked, “How has it changed you?”

The tension dissolving slightly, Riddle took a sip of his tea. Hermione did the same before reaching for the honey. It was lukewarm and terribly bitter. She wondered how often Riddle made tea. Perhaps he was more of a coffee person.

He lifted his shoulders in an absentminded shrug again. “My thoughts are…darker at times, always about my passions and ambitions. Dislike can quickly turn to loathing, and those that _intrigue_ me lead to a growing desire to know them.”

Hermione looked to her mug quickly as his lips curled over the end of his sentence, his eyes watching her intently.

“But how do you stop your thoughts from consuming you?” she queried into her tea.

“I don’t,” said Riddle. “Or I do. Control, like I said Miss Granger, is the key.”

Hermione took a long sip of tea and grimaced. Riddle’s lips twitched.

“So…you’re not a dark wizard?”

He chuckled deeply and said rather sarcastically, “I don’t have evil plans to take over the world, if that’s how you mean. My interests are purely academic, which I’m sure you of all people can understand.”

Hermione nodded firmly, understanding if not supportive.

“Understand,” spoke Riddle again, “that you may need to dabble in the Dark Arts yourself to overcome the power this necklace has over you.”

She nodded again, gripping her mug so tightly she thought it might crack. “I understand that, and I accept it, but only under the circumstances.”

Unbeknownst to Hermione, who was still staring into her teacup, a sly and triumphant smirk inched up Riddle’s lips, which were red and wet with his drink, and he looked her over once, twice, before saying, “Very good.”

They each took a sip in silence before Hermione pushed her tea away with pursed lips. It was too bitter and much too strong for her more delicate tastes. If they were to start lessons tonight, she did not want to be jittery from caffeine. Riddle watched her over the rim of his cup as he swallowed his down in big gulps.

“I’m afraid my tea-making skills are sub-par,” he said with a glance of annoyance at her ignored drink. “I apologize if it is not up to your standards.”

“Don’t be,” spluttered Hermione, afraid to offend him. “It was a thoughtful gesture. I am unused to a more bitter combination, but we all have our preferences.”

“That we do,” hummed Riddle with a raised brow. “I take it you don’t care for sugar then, no matter how bitter?”

“I’m afraid not. My mother instilled that from a young age. No necessary sugar or sweets unless it is the occasional dessert after dinner. My father still follows that rule at the house.”

Hermione fiddled with her fingers in her lap, chastising herself for sharing something somewhat personal about her family. Tom Riddle was the last person she wanted to tell her secrets to, but somehow, they always slipped out around him.

“If you don’t mind my probing,” said Riddle, looking unapologetic as Hermione immediately frowned, “your father seems to set many strict rules in your home.”

She chewed her lip in turn, thinking of ways to curb the conversation. Her nostrils flared as she released a deep breath. Really, after all he had put her through, he had no right to nose his way into her familial affairs.

“Unless I was mistaken, Mr. Riddle, our agreement was that you helped me, and _I_ was rewarded with the opportunity to ask you questions, of which you have answered. I do not recall granting you the right to butt your way into my business,” she finished rather impolitely, which was set off by the small smile on her lips.

Riddle smiled back stiffly, attempting understanding, but it made him look frighteningly aggravated at her instead.

“Then, if I have answered your questions and you no longer think I am the next coming of Grindelwald, we should begin.”

In a flash, Riddle’s wand was out. Hermione’s hand instinctively shot to where her wand lay, but he only sent their mugs and condiment jars to the kitchen counter. He stood gracefully and swept toward the living area as Hermione clambered to follow.

“Please, take a seat,” he said, motioning toward the couch.

Hermione brushed her skirt under her legs and took a seat on the leather couch. Riddle sat next to her, a fair distance away, but not so far that he couldn’t shift and brush her knee with his. Instead of moving farther away to avoid contact, though, Hermione remained still.

With a flick of his wand, the lights in his apartment flickered out and they were engulfed in darkness. Hermione could not help the low gasp that escaped from her lips as her fingers gripped the edge of the couch. Not being able to see him was frightening. She could feel his magic, a subtle but yet still an obvious presence to her alone, but she could not see nor even hear him. For several moments, she could only hear her own heavy breathing.

“First lesson,” Riddle said suddenly, and he sounded as if he was right in front of her. Her eyes were adjusting now, and she could see his silhouette from the dim streetlamp falling through the curtains. “I’m going to ask you a few questions and then you will perform some spell work, alright?”

“Ok,” she breathed in response. She heard the rustle of his pants moving.

“There’s a candle in my bedroom. I left the door open. I want you to summon it wandlessly,” instructed Riddle.

“Wandlessly? I’m afraid I'm not very adept in -”

“That doesn’t matter now,” said Riddle. “When we bond with our magic, it allows us to make strides in nonverbal and wandless magic that others cannot so easily achieve. This is a test to see how your magic has bonded to you and how comfortable _you_ are with it.”

Hermione shifted, feeling awkward. She _had_ tried more wandless magic in her spare time now that she was bonded to her inner magic, but it had not gone well. If there was one thing she hated more than failing herself, it was failing in front of someone else. Riddle had always had the air of a strict professor, and Hermione hated letting her professors down.

“Summon the candle,” he stated in a tone of finality.

Hermione drew in all of the strength she could muster. She knew her magic was _there_ , but she had not fully been able to understand it yet. Its presence was not nearly as overwhelming as Riddle’s was. Sometimes, she wondered if it was there at all. Maybe she had more control over it than she thought. With that molecule of confidence, Hermione took a deep breath, drawing in her magic until she could feel its soft and wild presence clenching around her heart. She held out an arm across Riddle’s chest, being careful not to touch him, and stretched her hand towards the hallway. She willed her magic to follow her direction, to expand towards Riddle’s bedroom, and call for the candle.

_“Accio candle!”_

She felt the strain on her magic immediately. In the dark, she could only hear a solid object whizzing through the hallway before it hit a wall with a _thud_ and rolled to the ground.

A ball of light appeared at the end of Riddle’s wand and the living room was suddenly bright again. The candle lay at the edge of the hallway. It must have flown out of the bedroom and hit the bathroom door.

“That was closer than I thought you would be able to manage,” said Riddle.

Hermione supposed it was some form of a compliment, but she was too annoyed and embarrassed to care either way. He held out his own hand, and with a wordless and wandless spell, the candle effortlessly flew into his hand. He placed it on the coffee table.

“Tell me, what did you feel when you tried to perform that spell?”

Hermione thought, staring at Riddle’s profile in the light of his wand. “My magic wasn’t strong enough; I could feel it. It stayed inside of me instead of expanding when I told it to, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” came his reply. Suddenly, he put out his wand light.

Hermione heard the rustle of his clothes, and his knee brushed hers as he leaned forward. With a pinch of his fingers around the wick of the candle, a small flame arose from nothing. She watched in awe of his second display of wandless magic. As he leaned back into the couch, his features now strongly defined in the dim light, he looked thoughtful. Hermione had never seen him look so intrigued and stumped at the same time.

“What’s wrong?” she immediately asked, turning to face him fully.

He stared at her for a moment. “Something doesn’t sit right with me. When a witch or wizard magic bonds, their magic is usually wild and hard to control - ”

“So is mine.”

“Yes, but you said it wasn’t strong, that it stayed within you instead of following directions.”

“Does that worry you?” asked Hermione with an edge of apprehension to her voice. It certainly worried her.

“Yes,” said Riddle. “Inner magic that is newly bonded with its source is always stronger than the witch or wizard honing its power. That is why it is so hard to control. Unwilling to follow your directions correctly is common. That takes practice.”

“But it didn’t want to. It was like it wanted to…stay? I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”

“I understand,” said Riddle simply.

Hermione watched his black shirt tighten around his biceps as he stretched his arms up and folded them behind his head. She straightened and shifted awkwardly. It was the most relaxed he had ever looked, although she supposed this _was_ his home. Still, the way they were sitting closely, their knees nearly touching and his elbow behind her head, made her feel something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She let him sit in silence for a few minutes. To be fair, both of their minds were racing.

“How often does your magic act up like it did the night I was over for dinner? Does it leave you, lurch out, expand past your control when you are alone?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek in thought. “No…its surprisingly calm, although I can _feel_ that it is wild.”

“What else can you feel?” he asked, sitting up suddenly. “You described my magic. How would you describe yours?”

“I…can’t. Other than wild - but a sort of unimposing presence - I can’t really _feel_ it like I can yours.”

It was not the first time she had noticed this, of course, but she always supposed it was because her powers were new. As untrained as she was in understanding and controlling her inner magic, it had not been a cause for concern until this very conversation. Apparently, everything Hermione thought was normal with bonding magic, was not normal at all. What was strange, was that her powers in inner magic bonding and essence bonding were equally new, and yet her own magic remained more of a mystery than Riddle's. Why could she feel his, but not her own?

“And the times it has noticeably manifested?” pressed Riddle, sounding suspicious.

Hermione stilled in thought, thinking back on the handful of times her magic _had_ lurched, pulled at her, reached towards something else, or a certain someone…

Her mouth fell open and she glanced in alarm at Riddle. He was watching her with a ready expression, as if he had already come to the conclusion. In the weeks since she put on the necklace, she had wondered every day why her magic only reacted to Riddle's. She figured it was perhaps a fearful reaction, a way for the necklace to warn her of evil in the vicinity, and therefore, protect her. That particular theory had been pushed to the side the moment the idea that the necklace was cursed came into question.

“Only when I’m with you,” she said with a slight quiver in her voice. “Only when your magic is especially…uncontrolled.” Riddle’s brow raised and his lips pursed. “And once in Malfoy Manor the other week,” she added as a second thought.

“Tell me about that,” said Riddle.

“I was in Mr. Malfoy’s study with Abraxas,” said Hermione. “We stopped in as we were heading to the stables, so Abraxas could inform his father that we were riding…” Hermione trailed as Riddle’s features turned from intrigued to emotionless in a second. “My magic reacted strangely in there; I felt a pull towards one of Mr. Malfoy’s shelves. He has many books and objects on them...”

Riddled hummed in thought and leaned forward. “I have a theory. Do I have your consent to test it?”

“Yes,” Hermione breathed in response, desperate for answers. Riddle’s business-like attitude and analytical expression unnerved her.

“Very well,” he said, turning towards her. “I’ve shut the lights off so there are no distractions. I am going to release control of my magic, and I want you to try and do the same.”

“Ok,” said Hermione. “Can I ask you something first?”

She watched as Riddle set his lips in a straight line in the candlelight, his chiseled jaw shadowed to make his face look even longer, even slimmer. He nodded.

“How do you release control of your magic? What I mean is, that first night, my magic pulled towards yours immediately. Your magic was more present and darker and malicious -” Riddle chuckled “- than I have felt it since. And some days it seems more controlled than others. Others, like today, I often feel nothing.”

Riddle breathed a laugh and looked down at her with a smirk. “I’m glad you have treasured every moment we have spent together, Miss Granger, to have assessed me and magic so accurately.”

Hermione was grateful it was mostly dark in the living room, because a blush immediately darkened her cheeks.

“To answer your question,” he continued, “I don’t always have the best control of my magic. I think some of that is due to the dark magic I am fearless to study and practice, as I have already told you. Mostly, it has to do with how I’m feeling. Anger, frustration, shame, are all traits that lead to a flare up of my magic. At dinner, you felt how angry and dark my magic was because that is what I was feeling. Your father was talking about my heritage. It is not a subject I enjoy to breach.”

Other than that very conversation of his family history - or lack of family, she thought sadly - she didn’t think Riddle had ever been so open with her. All she could reply was _“Oh”_ but she stored away his statement for a time where she could really ponder his words. It did make sense, though. Every time his magic had flared darkly, it had been around her. She goaded him, no doubt, with how she stood up to him, escaped his interrogations, and refused to give into his charm.

“Now, if you do not have any more inquiries…”

“Oh, of course,” spluttered Hermione, straightening.

Riddle closed his eyes, looking relaxed in front of her. Hermione took a deep breath and did the same, not sure what else to do. She focused on her magic, but quickly realized she had no control over it no matter how hard she tried. It surged from her almost painfully when she felt Riddle’s magic wrap around her like a blanket. And then, all at once she was completely at peace. In turn, her magic defied her wishes and wrapped around Riddle in an equal fashion.

It pulled her forward with a gasp, but she felt completely and utterly content at the feeling. Suddenly, Riddle had taken her hands in his. They weren’t holding each other, per say, but he had rested her palms on top of his between them. The feeling intensified immediately, so much so that gooseflesh appeared on Hermione’s arms. In a moment of curiosity, she opened her eyes. The flame of the candle had grown higher, as if their combined magics was kerosine. The curtains above the window were blowing slightly, as was Hermione’s hair. She had never seen anything like it, only experiencing such a powerful display when Professor Dumbledore and Merrythought dueled as a demonstration in Dueling Club. Hermione had joined third year. It had been the first time she noticed Tom Riddle, and how powerful he was.

Hermione looked over to Riddle, who still had his eyes closed. She was unconsciously leaning towards him as her magic beckoned them closer. She glanced down to their hands, where she was barely grazing his wrist with her fingers in an attempt not to touch him. His eyebrows were pinched in concentration and his lips were parted, seemingly as mesmerized by what was occurring as she was.

Hermione watched him silently, torn between not wanting to stare and wanting to decipher what he was thinking and feeling. After several moments, his eyes opened to meet hers, a piercing blue that was full of questions and curiosities. Hermione, for once, did not break his stare, too perplexed by the euphoric feeling of their magic bonding.

She tried not to frown at the feeling Riddle left behind when he pulled away. His hands and magic left her in an instant, and Hermione’s own magic was left grappling for him, confused and abandoned. Within seconds, it retreated rather forcefully, and Hermione held a hand over her heart at the feeling.

Riddle continued to stare.

“What was that?” she said eventually in a breath of air.

Their knees were touching now, she realized, and perhaps had been the entire time. Riddle did not move, so neither did she.

“Not good,” he replied simply.

“Do you know what’s wrong with me?” she asked hopefully.

Riddle was staring at her necklace now, looking contemplative.

“I think that necklace has dark magic, as feared.”

Hermione clutched at the necklace and her throat, swallowing thickly.

“Am I in danger?”

“I’m not sure,” hummed Riddle. “The necklace, I believe, seeks the dark. Your magic is dormant unless subjected to dark magic. It is beyond your control, as I said most newborn inner magic is, but it is weak…until it is not.”

Hermione was putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

“When your magic expands, like it has on few occasions, it is strong. You’re a strong witch, Miss Granger, but I fear this magic is not quite your own…in a way.”

“What do you mean?” gulped Hermione.

“Your magic is dormant and weak _unless_ faced with dark magic, Miss Granger. It is now feeding off of it. I believe that’s why it reacts to me, because I admittedly educate myself in _all_ forms of magic, including the Dark Arts.”

“But that day in Malfoy Manor - ”

“Septimus Malfoy is known for his treasures, as I’m sure you know. I know firsthand that he keeps dark artefacts in his study. Your magic reacted to it just as it does to me.”

Hermione picked at her thumbnail in her lap, shifting away from him nervously.

“But it feels different with you,” she said.

Riddle nodded once, his eyes roaming her. “Yes,” he sighed, “because I allowed my magic to bond with yours, momentarily, which is what was happening when I ‘physically’ touched my magic to yours. What did it feel like?”

Hermione fought the blush creeping up her cheeks. “Like I was thirsty,” she decided on, “and I had not drunk water in days.”

“Because I was giving you what it wanted,” said Riddle softly.

“This necklace is purposefully attracting me to the Dark Arts,” she said after a moment. Riddle nodded. “It’s turning my magic dark.” Riddle nodded again.

Hermione took in a deep, shuddering breath and stood quickly to her feet, bumping Riddle’s knee along the way.

“Sweet Salazar,” she whispered to herself, beginning to pace. “What’s going to happen to me?” she wondered aloud. “What if I hurt my father?”

Riddle watched her calmly from the couch. “You’re not going to hurt anyone. I can help you.”

“How,” spit Hermione in a moment of fearful rage. “You _practice_ the Dark Arts. My necklace _desires_ the Dark Arts. With your help, my situation may only worsen!

Riddle did not reply, and Hermione took a deep breath, calming herself. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I’m just frightened. If it wasn’t for your help and adeptness at essence bonding, I would have figured all of this out when it was too late.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Riddle simply.

Hermione stood in silence for a moment, her back to Riddle, staring at the Floo.

“I should go,” she mumbled eventually. “This is…all too much.”

Riddle stood. “I understand.”

Hermione turned to him, glancing smally up at him. “I do appreciate your help, Mr. Riddle.”

“I can help you Miss Granger, like I said. If you wish to make this a weekly lesson, I can teach you to control your magic and fight this, as I have learned to.”

“I don’t think I have another choice,” admitted Hermione. Riddle raised a slightly offended brow. “I meant because I’m in danger, not because you’re my only option for help,” she added quickly, even though it was unfortunately true.

Riddle chuckled. “I am aware that, if you knew another essence bonder, you would not come anywhere near me any longer. I take no offense. But, lucky for you, I’m a natural.”

He smirked arrogantly, and for the first time, Hermione found it amusing and returned it with her own smile. “Like I said, it does not go unappreciated.”

“Next Monday then?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, already anxious for their next meeting. “Perhaps, though, I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Perhaps,” hummed Riddle. “Until then, do stay away from anything of a darker variety, even your books. Anything will feed your magic and, therefore, your necklace. The more you are exposed, the faster the curse will work.”

“Ironic, then, that you’re the one helping me,” said Hermione with worry.

“I have enough control to help you more than harm you in this situation.”

Hermione looked at him with apprehension.

“Don’t you trust me?” asked Riddle, mocking smirk in place, turning the charm back on.

Hermione laughed as she tucked her cloak under her arm. “Not at all, actually,” she mused.

Riddle’s smirk grew wider as he handed over the jar of Floo powder. “It’s late,” he said. “Best to take the quickest way home.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione, taking a handful. She couldn’t help but cringe at how much she had thanked him this night.

“Miss Granger,” said Riddle when she turned toward the Floo. He stopped her by taking her free hand in his. In the same fashion as he had before, he kissed her knuckles like a perfect gentlemen. After the rather intimate display of bonding their magic together, Hermione couldn’t help but feel the gesture had more meaning in it than before. “I am sorry this has happened to you.”

Hermione offered him a small smile. “As am I.”

He nodded once and let her go, stepping away as she tossed the powder into the hearth.

“Until next week, Mr. Riddle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since posting chapter four, there have been over 1,000 hits on this story! I am really excited at the opportunity to have more readers join us :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. We got some answers about Hermione, and Hermione, in turn, believes she got some answers about Tom. But we all know him well enough to know he is a good actor. 
> 
> I loved introducing you all to Cedrella Black, who was mentioned in chapter two. She does not play a pivotal role in the story, but has had a huge influence on Hermione and her morals and politics.  
> Fun fact: Callidora, Cedrella, and Charis Black are real characters created by JK Rowling on the Black family tree. They are the daughters of Arcturus Black II. Cedrella really did marry Septimus Weasley, who later became parents to the dad we all know and love: Arthur Weasley! Charis did, in fact, marry Caspar Crouch, a name I am sure we all recognize! The oldest, Callidora, married Harfang Longbottom, another familiar surname.
> 
> The next chapter is a filler, but I hope will be interesting nonetheless! We will see another, rather interesting, interaction between Tom, Hermione, and a new character I have mentioned but not yet introduced. It is in the works now and will be up soon! 
> 
> The GOOD NEWS is that it is the last chapter before the much anticipated Hallowe'en Ball at Malfoy Manor. 
> 
> Thank you all x


	6. Unfriendly Friends

The following Sunday, they did, in fact, see each other. For the majority of the day, Hermione was absent for Riddle’s apprenticeship with her father. She had received a letter the morning before from Alfyn Lestrange, the other male in her small group of close friends that she had not seen in some weeks. It had read:

_Hermione,_

_Are you busy tomorrow? I need new dress robes for Malfoy’s ball next weekend and my mum is threatening to take me. I don’t want to bring Eleanor along, because she’s my date. Victoria, as you well know, has very flashy taste, and I’d be passed along fifty robes to try on before afternoon tea. I trust your judgement, though - especially above Victoria’s._

_Will you please grace me with your presence, oh dear Hermione? Owl me your reply and, if you’re available I’ll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron at ten._

_Fondly,_

_A. Lestrange_

Hermione had laughed at his desperation and replied her confirmation to help him. However, Robert Ross had asked her to take an emergency shift at _Secondhand Tomes_ until four in the afternoon (they closed earlier on Sundays) and asked if Alfyn could meet her afterward. He could.

Alfyn Lestrange had always been one of Hermione’s favorite people. He was only a year above her in school, and while they weren’t as close as she was with Abraxas, they still had great fun together when they spent time alone.

Alfyn was like Abraxas in many ways: well-loved by many for his boisterous personality and chivalrous generosity. However, he was reserved at times, and much more independent and rebellious than Abraxas. It was their looks that made them polar opposites, although one could not find better friends than the two young men. Abraxas had pale skin, fair features, and white-blonde hair. Alfyn had a darker complexion from his father’s side and much more hardened features than Abraxas. He reminded her of Riddle in many ways, although Riddle was more clean-cut and elegant in comparison. Alfyn liked to grow his black, wavy hair down to his shoulders, and often defied the norm with how long he would try to wear his beard. Pureblooded men of the decade more than often displayed a clean-shaven face, as was the current fashion.

According to Alfyn, his mother had threatened to kick him out of the house if he did not cut his hair and shave his beard for the upcoming Hallowe'en Ball. He had taken the threat literally and greeted Hermione outside _Wizards Robes For All Occasions_ with his hair short on the sides and longer on top. His beard, however, he was planning to keep until the morning of the ball no matter what his mother said.

They had found him a pair of dark navy dress robes within the hour. Eleanor was wearing a light orange dress, and Hermione helped Alfyn find the perfect matching bowtie that incorporated both colors.

He invited her for tea at one of the many teashops in Diagon Alley and they chatted for nearly an hour before Hermione kindly invited him to dinner.

“My father will love to see you,” she said once he quickly agreed.

“That’s because your father loves me,” chided Alfyn as he offered Hermione his arm to escort her back into Diagon Alley. They had paid for their tea and were to Floo to the Granger’s for dinner.

“I wonder who he loves more, you or Brax,” mused Hermione aloud with a secret smirk.

Alfyn scoffed but then scowled. “I suppose Brax, the bloody bastard. I suppose Hector wants you to marry him?”

“I’m not marrying anyone I don’t want to,” said Hermione firmly. “And my father would be just as proud to have you as a son-in-law." She patted his arm in mock comfort and watched amusedly as Alfyn straightened proudly before running a free hand through his ringlet curls.

“Damn right he would. We’d have cuter kids, too.”

Hermione barked a laugh but then joined Alfyn in an obvious grimace.

“Yeah…” cringed Alfyn, “no offense, but that grosses me out.”

Hermione snorted. “Me too, as adorable as you are.” She pinched his cheek playfully around Alfyn's broad grin.

“What about Brax?” he continued, ignoring her jibe as they crossed through the brick archway and entered _The_ _Leaky Cauldron_. There were a few people already sitting down for an early dinner after a long day of shopping.

“What about him?” echoed Hermione.

Alfyn glanced at her, failing to hide his mischevious grin. “What would you rate the cuteness of your kids with Brax compared to ours?”

Hermione glared out of the corner of her eye, immediately feeling uncomfortable as images of tow-head, curly blonde-haired children flashed through her mind. Her father, Cedrella, and now Alfyn? Why was everyone on about her and Abraxas?

“Why do you ask?” Hermione quickly countered in defense.

“Just wondering,” he laughed, throwing his hands up in mock-defense.

“Don’t tell me you think we’d be a good match, too,” said Hermione once they reached the Floo.

“Of course, I do,” said Alfyn cautiously. “Unless I’m mistaken, you had a crush on Brax from age nine to your third year.”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” said Hermione, taking a handful of Floo powder, “he never returned those feelings.”

She tossed in the Floo powder and disappeared in a roar of green flames before Alfyn could respond. Her eyes remained squeezed shut for the uncomfortable ride, and she wasn't surprised to feel her face flaming as she stepped out of the fireplace in the parlor at her house. It was still an awkward subject for her, but she had had immature, youthful feelings for Abraxas long ago. They had been rather strong and quite obvious, something Abraxas still loved to tease her about. No matter how close they had been in their youth, he had ignored her crush and continued treating her like a younger sister. It broke her innocent young heart when her feelings hadn't been returned, and even more so when they grew apart in their later Hogwarts years. Hermione still was not sure why their friendship had dissolved in Abraxas's fifth, sixth and seventh year, but she suspected it had everything to do with the large group of friends he had procured - Tom Riddle being among them. Now, they looked back on it with a laugh and only the smallest twinge of discomfort. Hermione knew boys fancied themselves to be men by fifth year, and surely having a younger girl friend had become "uncool" among his Slytherin friend group.

Now that Hermione and Abraxas were close friends once more (and of the age to be wed), the social side of Wizarding Britain enjoyed voicing their opinion on the future of their relationship. Apparently Alfyn was included in that category now. With so many believing they would be a perfect match, Hermione couldn't help but put her friendship with Abraxas into perspective once more. It seemed lately, especially since Cedrella Black's insinuations the week prior, any moment not focused on her cursed necklace was directed towards her past feelings for Abraxas. She wondered what a match between them would look like. Embarrassed, she would think of how horrified Abraxas would be to be engaged to his best friend. But he had asked her to the ball, hadn't he? Her twelve-year-old self would be thrilled, but Hermione knew better than to overthink his invitation. They had attended several events together in the past - just this year, even. Abraxas meant nothing by inviting her, and she meant nothing more from accepting with a friendly assent. But deep down, her twelve-year-old self hoped the meanings behind his many invitations to dinner parties and galas this year were not _just nothing_.

Hermione shook off her cloak angrily, frustrated with her wayward thoughts and Alfyn's playful interrogation of Abraxas.

Back in _The_ _Leaky Cauldron_ , Alfyn was chuckling to himself from the rise he had gotten out of Hermione. He waited a few moments after she left so he wouldn’t stumble into her, and tossed in his own Floo powder from the dusty mantel.

“Granger Residence,” he announced, before spinning out of sight in a tornado of neon green. When he emerged in the parlor of Hermione’s home, she was staring at him crossly with her hands on her hips.

“What?” he asked innocently. “Still a touchy subject?”

“No,” Hermione scoffed. “Everyone just seems to think we should be together.”

“Well do you want to be?” Alfyn called after her as she began strolling out of the parlor.

“I don’t know,” huffed Hermione. “Maybe if we felt that way about each other,” she said slowly, hesitantly, “but we don’t.”

Alfyn rolled his dark brown eyes at her naivety. "Who knows?” he said, trying to be the best wingman for his mate. “Next weekends the ball, and you’re going together. Maybe something will happen?”

Hermione looked thoughtful at the idea, then grimaced. Alfyn frowned.

“I don’t know. Just the idea of it makes me cringe. I mean, we’re such close friends…”

Alfyn hummed in understanding. Hermione locked arms with him and steered him towards the garden. Perhaps they could take a walk before dinner.

“Maybe that’s why it would work,” he offered. “Then you could have some great long love story to tell your children.”

Hermione snorted in amusement, wondering what Abraxas would think of this ridiculous conversation. He would probably hex Alfyn if he even knew he was asking such questions.

“I still think we’d have cuter kids, though,” said Alfyn, nudging her in the side.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at his stupidity and the ridiculous grin he was wearing.

A throat cleared in front of them. Alfyn pulled them to a halt.

“Tom!” he exclaimed in surprise.

Tom Riddle was standing in front of them, looking between Hermione and Alfyn while the latter stared, gaping at his friend.

“Alfyn. Miss Granger.”

Riddle nodded curtly and politely, but his features were sternly set. She wasn’t sure why, but Hermione pulled away from Alfyn quickly, a blush crawling up her neck under Riddle’s scrutiny.

“Mr. Riddle,” said Hermione smoothly, finding her composure. “It’s nice to see you again.”

She thought it might have been the first time she meant that. He was helping her now, and she had spent the last week trying to loathe him a little less because of it.

He looked rather dashing, she sheepishly admitted. A day down in her father’s lab had clearly taken a toll on him. He looked overworked and sweaty, but for some reason it made Hermione blush even redder. His hair was more disheveled than she had ever seen it, with many damp strands falling onto his forehead. He must have just removed himself from working over a steaming cauldron. He was wearing simple trousers and a white button up that was rolled up to his elbows. Still, ever the embodiment of class and perfection, he left no button undone.

“Tom, what are you doing here?” Alfyn asked before Riddle could respond to her. He was looking at Hermione strangely; his usual glare, but mixed with something else she could not place. Anger? Humor? It could have been either.

“Have I not told you, Alfyn?" said Tom smoothly. "I am Mr. Granger's new apprentice." 

Alfyn did not bother to hide his surprise as he looked between Hermione and Riddle. She did not miss the worry on his features when he glanced back to her, as if he was perplexed as to why she had not told him.

She simply had not thought about it. She had heard Abraxas speak of Riddle before, but never Alfyn. And while she knew they often hung about the same men, she never believed them to be anything more than mutual friends or acquaintances. If she knew they were close enough to update the other regularly about work as Riddle insinuated, Hermione probably would have interrogated Alfyn about Riddle by now, like she had with Abraxas. Riddle seemed to know Alfyn very well indeed, but for some reason, did not appear happy to see him.

“Perhaps I forgot,” said Alfyn, finally finding composure among his shock.

“You should listen better then,” said Riddle in a light but harsh tone. Hermione raised a brow at his condescending tone, but arched it even higher when Alfyn bowed his head almost sheepishly.

“Are you retiring for the day, Mr. Riddle?” asked Hermione. He seemed to have come in the direction of the basement staircase where Hector maintained his potions lab, but his belongings were not with him.

“No,” he said curtly, “I was merely taking a break for the restroom. We still need to label our findings and clean up.”

“Lovely,” said Hermione in a false chipper tone. The tension in the hallway was more than palpable. “We can help to speed things along, then. I have invited Alfyn to stay for dinner…” She hesitated. “Perhaps you would join us?”

Riddle looked somewhat surprised by her offer but gave nothing away besides a brief raise of one eyebrow.

“Thank you, Miss Granger, but I’ve bothered your father long enough for one day.”

Hermione thought she saw a challenge in his eyes and a twitch at his lips. Was he trying to make her work harder to get him to stay? She smirked smally in response, letting him know she had caught onto his cunning ploy.

“My father would be delighted,” she said earnestly. “I really must insist,” she added with her widest, hostly smile.

Riddle smirked fully now. Alfyn shifted uncomfortably at Hermione’s side.

“Very well,” said Riddle, inclining his head. “If you _insist_.”

“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “I’ll go let the kitchens know, then Alfyn and I can help clean up downstairs if needed.”

Hermione smiled innocently as she brushed past Riddle, hurrying her steps. The two men watched her retreat back down the corridor and disappear around the corner. They waited until the click of her shoes dissolved before moving. Riddle sighed quietly, turning a glare on the confused pureblood in front of him.

“What’s going on?” asked Alfyn immediately.

“You dare to question me?” hissed Riddle immediately.

“No,” said Alfyn quickly. “Of course not, Tom.” He knew better than to call Tom Riddle by his preferred name in public. “I’m just…do you have plans for the Grangers that you have not yet told us?”

“On the contrary,” said Riddle, “I have no plans for them.”

“But last month, with Abraxas -”

“I merely wanted to question him about the girl. I was not aware, at the time, that - in addition to Abraxas - the two of you were so…close.”

Alfyn sensed danger and tensed. He shook his head so fast his curls swished on his forehead. “We’ve known each other for years, but it’s not like that.”

“I see," hummed Riddle. “I presume the comment about her bearing your children was mere jesting, then?" He paused in satisfaction as Alfyn blanched. "And what of Abraxas?”

Alfyn swallowed thickly, staring at his feet obediently and regretting his earlier joke to Hermione immensely. Riddle cleared his throat, awaiting on his answer to the question. Alfyn licked his dry lips. The last thing he wanted to do was get his friend into trouble. Either of them.

“They’ve been nearly inseparable since they were young children, I believe,” said Alfyn, shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “At Hogwarts, once you created the Knights, they drifted apart. They’re just friends now.”

“Pureblood society seems to hope otherwise,” said Riddle with a scrutinizing stare. He scowled when Alfyn began fiddling with his hands awkwardly behind his back.

“People think they are a good match, but they don’t feel that way about each other,” lied Alfyn as smoothly as possible. He couldn't speak to Hermione's feelings, but he could to Abraxas's.

Riddle pursed his lips suspiciously. “I’ll have to ask Abraxas myself, then,” he said. “Perhaps I will have to change our meeting time this week to a sooner date.”

Alfyn chewed on the inside of his cheek to hide his groan. “You don’t intend to harm her, do you?” he asked, not bothering to hide his concern. Riddle had clearly set his sights on her, for some reason, and Alfyn had known Hermione since she was eleven.

“Would you stop me, if I had a reason to?” asked Riddle lowly, threateningly.

Alfyn took an alarmed step back, trying to school his features into nonchalance, although he trembled on the inside. Would he defy Tom Riddle to save Hermione? He did not know, although his mind seemed to be made up on the matter.

“No, Tom,” he whispered, hanging his head.

Riddle straightened, appraising him with an upturned lip. “Not such a loyal friend to her after all… _Good_ ,” he hissed. “But rest assured, I have no intentions to harm Miss Granger. She is much too valuable.”

Alfyn felt his shoulders sag in relief, but the tension remained. Riddle had just said he had no plans for the Grangers, but yet he called Hermione valuable. If Tom Riddle thought something was valuable, he would stop at nothing to acquire it. It was almost safer to have him despise you. Almost. Alfyn was just about to ask how Hermione could possibly be valuable to their cause, when the lady in question rounded the corner with an oblivious and pretty smile.

“Dinner is set. Down to the lab then?”

How had she gotten tangled up with Tom Riddle, Alfyn wondered as they made way to the lab. Nearly two months ago, Riddle had tortured Abraxas for information on the girl after he secured a business deal with Hector Granger. They did not know why Riddle had been so livid and adamant to learn about Hermione. She had, of course, told Abraxas of how their paths had crossed in her father's study not a week later. Even under the Cruciatus, Abraxas did not have much information to give Riddle that he had not already found himself, and Riddle had not mentioned Hermione since. Now, Alfyn found him _working_ in her home on the weekend?

And what was more, they seemed familiar with one another. Alfyn watched as they descended the staircase side-by-side, Hermione asking Riddle a question about the potion he had been brewing. _Too_ familiar.

**~**

Hector Granger had been delighted to entertain both Riddle and Alfyn for the night. He was ever the gracious host, loud and boisterous with many a question for each young man. But not even the gullible and fun-loving host could ignore the palpable tension at the dinner table.

Riddle was short but courteous the entire night, replying quickly to everything Hector, Alfyn or Hermione had to say to him. Hermione seemed to be the only one frustrated by his curt responses. In fact, as dinner drew to a close, she was rather annoyed with his treatment of Alfyn throughout the evening. She was also aware that Riddle seemed equally irked with her as he apparently was with Alfyn, mostly because when he was not talking, he was watching her with cool appraisal. It was mostly the tension between Alfyn and Riddle that put the Grangers on edge. Every time Alfyn cautiously asked a question and got a clipped response, Hermione and her father exchanged wary looks. But then, Riddle would turn a charming smile on Hector, who was temporarily distracted by the anonymous drama between the two men. Hermione assumed, judging by the tightness in their faces when she had rejoined them after informing the kitchens of dinner, that Riddle and Alfyn had either argued or shared a tense conversation.

“Tom,” said Hector over dessert, “will you be at Malfoy Manor this weekend for the Hallowe’en Ball?”

Hermione straightened at this, wanting to pinch herself for being so curious of his reply. Riddle cleared his throat and offered Hector a poised smile.

“I will, sir,” said Riddle, looking over at Hermione. “The Malfoy's were generous to extend an invitation.”

“Nonsense,” chortled Hector. “I’m sure you were the first on their list of invitees. You have told me how close you are with young Abraxas, after all, and old Septimus holds you in high regard, indeed!”

Hermione shared a glance with Alfyn, who sat beside her.

“Nevertheless, they were kind to invite me,” said Riddle graciously.

“And will you be bringing anyone?” pressed Hector.

Hermione perked up even more at this, and actually _did_ pinch herself for her intrigue. She had never thought about Riddle with other witches; never had a reason to. Was he the sort? He did not seem like it. He seemed too particular; too busy and arrogant. No doubt he had women falling at his feet, though... Did he indulge?

“I’m afraid not,” replied Riddle smoothly, “although Abraxas has given me several options of eligible ladies.”

Hector boomed a laugh. “I have no doubt! The lad is such a social butterfly.”

Alfyn and Hermione couldn’t help but snicker at their best friend’s expense.

“However,” Hector continued, “he has chosen my Hermione here for his date this Saturday.”

Hermione was sure her entire face colored pink. All eyes turned to her, her father’s proud, Alfyn’s teasing, and Riddle’s completely and utterly blank. Her own eyes automatically stayed on Riddle’s the longest, and the longer they watched each other, the more Hermione got the sinking feeling that he was not delighted by her father’s news, although she could not imagine why.

“Is that so?” Riddle said smoothly, coldly. To Hermione's surprise, he did not look to her as he said it, but to Alfyn. “Abraxas had not told me.”

Alfyn noticeably tensed beside her.

“Just as friends,” Hermione muttered quickly, embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

“Yes, yes of course,” her father waved her off. “Alfyn, who are you bringing?”

“Eleanor Greengrass, sir.”

“Ah, Miss Greengrass! I should’ve known, the way you five are always around each other. That just leaves Miss Selwyn. Tom, m’boy, perhaps you could be her knight in shining armor?”

Riddle turned to Hector with a generous smile.

“I have met Miss Selwyn before,” he said. “Perhaps I will reach out - ”

“Victoria already has a date,” interrupted Hermione quickly. She looked to Riddle, who had returned to staring at her intently. She forced herself not to show her embarrassment at practically blurting out the words. “She’s going with Palmorus Carrow.”

“Then I suppose I shall go alone,” Riddle said, not taking his eyes off of her. Hermione swallowed and looked down at her plate.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of friends to keep you company, Tom,” said Hector in conclusion.

Dessert ended soon after, and Hermione was grateful for it. It had not been a particularly eventful meal and was rather awkward when her father was not entertaining. The mood between her and Riddle had clearly shifted from Monday. Hermione had played through their conversations that night over and over in her head. It had been a civil two hours together in his flat, but tensions had run high the entire night. Her questions about Riddle and his… _extra-curricular activities_ had been answered, although whether she believed him was an ongoing debate in her head. Furthermore, the theories and discoveries about her necklace had been terrifying conclusions, leaving Hermione on edge all week. Still, she had left Monday night on good terms with Riddle, or so she thought. 

He now seemed to be angry with her, for some reason unknown. Perhaps she was misreading him, and he was simply in a foul mood. It wasn’t difficult to decipher that his foul mood had something to do with Alfyn. She wished she had overheard their conversation in the corridor after she had left for the kitchens.

“I should retire,” said Alfyn politely, standing to his feet. “I usually join my father for cards on Sunday nights.”

“Ah!” sighed Hector. “Well, do tell Rodolphus I say hello, although I’m sure I will see him this Saturday.”

“He’ll be there, sir,” said Alfyn, before proceeding to offer his thanks to Hector for graciously allowing him to dinner. “I’ll see you, Tom,” he said, offering a short smile and incline of the head.

“Yes, you shall,” said Riddle in return, a smile crawling up his lips that charmed Hector and set Hermione and Alfyn on edge. “Good to see you, Alfyn, as usual.”

“I’ll escort him out, father,” said Hermione, standing. She took the arm Alfyn offered her before letting him sweep her out of the dining room. When they had rounded the corner, away from Riddle’s eyes that she could feel following her, she turned to Alfyn with an expression that said, _“You have a lot of explaining to do.”_

Unfortunately, he was bestowing the same look onto her.

“What the fuck is going on, Hermione?” hissed Alfyn when they were in the safety of the parlor.

She sighed, firstly at his language and second in acknowledgement that she deserved it.

“There’s some things that you should know,” she began, “or at least that I’m ready to tell you…Brax and the girls, too.”

Alfyn tensed at her serious tone. His face twisted in confusion and displeasure.

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not involved in any way with Riddle. I thought Hector having him over for dinner last month was a one-time thing?”

“So did I,” sighed Hermione. “It’s complicated. How close are you with him really?”

Alfyn tensed further and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared down his nose at her.

“It’s complicated,” he reiterated much to Hermione’s annoyance. “Just promise me you’re being careful.”

His tone made her overly suspicious, a feeling she had had all week since leaving Riddle’s apartment, and it was only intensified by his concerned and serious tone.

“Why must I need to be careful?”

Alfyn groaned and began buttoning up his travelling cloak. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded once more like, _“It’s complicated.”_

Hermione huffed. “Are you busy tomorrow? I need to get some things off my chest, to you and the others. I need some advice about Riddle.”

“I swear Hermione -”

“Are you busy or not?” she hissed.

“No,” he replied. “Come to the manor at noon. I’ll Floo the others to join us.”

“Perfect,” said Hermione, feeling as if a weight had lifted off her chest. Quite literally, she thought as her fingers stroked the emerald stone of her cursed necklace, that _was_ weighing her down.

“Just…heed my word. Be careful,” said Alfyn, before he tossed Floo powder into the hearth and disappeared.

Hermione sighed, staring at the spot he had just occupied. She crossed her arms, hugging her waist, and began thinking of what to say to her friends tomorrow. She was ready to talk, now that she had her answers about her necklace, magic, and Tom Riddle. His willingness to help her only debunked her suspicions about him. He dabbled in the Dark Arts, yes, but perhaps he wasn’t an evil sorcerer. Therefore, Hermione felt more comfortable telling her friends about the intense and perplexing last few weeks of her life. Unlike before, when she first felt the darker and alarming presence of Riddle’s magic, she didn’t feel like she may be putting anyone in danger by speaking about him.

Still, Riddle had educated himself in the Dark Arts, taking the knowledge several steps further than she ever dared to with her books. She understood his interest, to a certain level, but it did not mean she trusted him. He may not be a dark wizard now, but that did not mean he would not become one in the future. Riddle said himself that he had to fight to control his poisoned magic. The Dark Arts changed a person, that was inevitable. Riddle was powerful, but he wasn’t immune to temptation. Neither was Hermione, which was why she shamelessly read books of all sorts of ancient and modern magic.

Yet, he was helping her, which obliged Hermione to at least want to trust him. Her necklace was cursing her, trying to drag her into the dark. Riddle embodied that darkness, but he was also the light at the end of the tunnel, in a way. He had the means to help her, and despite starting their acquaintance off on the wrong foot, he had offered a helping hand. It still confused her to an extent, but she didn’t have the time or energy to be confused. She wanted to remain vigilant, but that simply didn’t apply to her case anymore. She had to act now and act quick; act faster than the curse. Despite a voice in her head protesting otherwise, Hermione was ready to share these burdens with her friends.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

Hermione whirled around. Riddle was standing in the doorway to the parlor, his briefcase in one hand and his cloak folded over his elbow. With his free hand, he pushed his fallen hair off his forehead as he stepped into the room.

“Of course,” she said kindly. “It’s the least I could do after your help last week.”

“I am happy to do it,” he said, stopping in front of her.

“A lucky coincidence that Alfyn was here tonight. I did not know you were such good friends.”

Riddle’s jaw noticeably clenched. “Yes,” he said stiffly, “Alfyn is a smart and… _loyal_ friend.” His lips twitched humorously, as if he knew something she did not. When Hermione continued to watch him instead of replying, he continued, “Is he not?”

“H-He is,” she said quickly. His close proximity unnerved her, as it always did, and she took a step back only to hit the stone of the fireplace.

Riddle smirked openly. She was briefly reminded of their first meeting weeks ago, when she had dragged him into a random linen closet to reprimand him for trying to buy out her father’s heirlooms. Riddle had been just as angry about her meddling in the sale and had all but cornered her against the door. He had not treated her so roughly since, although perhaps their first run-in at _Secondhand Tomes_ topped even that. If she thought hard enough, Hermione could remember the feel of his hands wrapped around her wrists, his breath on her neck.

Unconsciously, her gaze travelled the length of him.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, referring to their next Monday lesson.

Riddle’s expression hardened momentarily before he offered her a sad smile.

“I am afraid I must cancel tomorrow, Miss Granger. Some last minute… _business_ to attend to, you see.”

“Oh,” said Hermione awkwardly, trying not to sounds disappointed. “I understand.”

Riddle smiled again. “I do wish to give you homework, however.”

“Oh?” perked Hermione. Riddle chuckled.

“Yes, I thought you might appreciate that,” he hummed. “I want you to try summoning items wandlessly, just like on Monday.” 

“I try that all the time,” said Hermione with a defeated sigh.

“Yes,” said Riddle, “but not how I’m going to ask you to do it.”

Hermione quirked a brow and crossed her arms.

“As strange as it may sound, I want you to speak aloud to your magic.”

“That is strange,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “But there’s a chance that it will work. Speak to your magic, make demands and promises; manipulate it into doing what you want.”

“Make promises? As in…”

“As in promise your magic, your necklace, what it wants if it listens to you. Take control. Be as manipulative with it as it is being to you.”

“I see,” hummed Hermione in thought. It was an interesting approach, but perhaps it could work if she practiced hard enough.

“Don’t worry Miss Granger,” said Riddle, throwing on his cloak. “You’re not in any danger yet. Practice and research, as I have no doubt you have been and will continue to do, and we will figure this out.”

Hermione nodded and stepped aside when he made a grab for the Floo powder.

“If you don’t mind, Miss Granger, I would like to stop by during your shift tomorrow. I have something to give you that I think will aid you in the research process.”

“Oh,” she said, trying not to sound as surprised as she was. “Yes, of course.”

“Splendid,” he smiled and Hermione eyed the small dimple in his left cheek. “Hopefully I do not catch you at a busy time. If so, however, I will see you at the ball Saturday.”

“Yes,” said Hermione breathlessly. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

“I look forward to it,” said Riddle silkily before tossing the Floo powder into the hearth. “I’m sure you and Abraxas will make a lovely couple.”

Hermione had no time to respond, not to thank him nor protest his sneaky comment about Abraxas, before he stepped in the size-accommodating hearth and disappeared. Hermione watched the flames die and the fireplace revert to its normal size.

Many minutes later, her mind racing, she retired to her bedroom. Lolpey drew her a bath upon arrival and she sunk into it gratefully. The bubbles and oils relieved the stress on her shoulders, and Hermione bathed slowly, distracted.

Her head ached with the blur of countless thoughts. Tom Riddle occupied most of them, to her dismay. She fretted, as she did so often now, about his ‘generous’ offer to help her with her curse. She worried even more over the constant wariness that he had lied about his ‘purely educational’ opinion of the Dark Arts. Two nagging opinions argued louder and louder in her mind.

One screamed at her that Riddle was dangerous, that he was deceiving her as he did everyone. It tried to tell her to listen and pay attention to those around her that knew Riddle well. Abraxas Malloy and Alfyn Lestrange had been suspiciously quiet on the subject of Riddle thus far; subtlety worried but silent. Alfyn even said to _“be careful”_. Why would he say that without having a reason to mean it? The voice warned her to dig deeper: find what secrets Riddle was hiding. Like why he was working a measly job in _Borgin & Burkes_; what kind of Dark Arts magic he had practiced; and why, _really,_ he had found it inside himself to help her.

The second voice, rather the devil on her shoulder, put Riddle in a different light. It acknowledged how dangerous he was, yes, but in regard to how it made her feel. She had noticed, since the day he had sat with her and talked in the garden, that he consumed her thoughts every day. When she researched her necklace or her project, she thought of him. When she found herself lost among the shelves at work, she thought of him pushing her up against them, his hands around her arm, her wrists. When she watched the sun go down and give way to a dark blue sky, she thought of his eyes. When she bathed, she thought of his touch. When she diagramed aspects of her runic healing research with straight lines on parchment, she thought of the sharp line of his jaw.

She pushed both consciences to the back of her head, for now. She would stay vigilant of the first, but for now, had no reason to think so poorly of his intentions. As for the second voice, she would ignore it as well as she could. But she knew, as soon as she saw him again, it would come rushing back. It was inappropriate, she knew, and the attraction was completely unjustified given how horrible he had treated her in the beginning, how arrogant she knew he was. It was because Hermione had never been treated nor touched by a man the way Riddle had handled her in the past. Men in this decade were careful, respectful, and the notion of courting was still prominent. And yet, Riddle had broken down all of these barriers the very day they met. For Hermione, it was confusing, borderline deplorable behavior, but exciting. But he _was_ attractive, and she was only, in recent days, really allowing herself to openly admit it. She had known it from her third year at Hogwarts, when she and Abraxas drifted apart in his fifth year. She would stare longingly across the Great Hall at her old friend and would constantly find him sitting next to his new friend, Tom Riddle. The female population had always been aware of him, but Hermione had been rather preoccupied with her crush on Abraxas. She had done nothing more than acknowledge his handsome features until he caught her breaking curfew in the library in her fifth year. He had cornered her, held her by the arm, pulled her against him, and Hermione had admitted understanding as to why the rest of her female friends simpered over the older Slytherin.

Now that she was older, she understood the raw attraction that clouded her brain every time she was near him. Still, the logical part of her did not want to get any closer to Riddle than she already was. The less logical side of her, the side that was driven by her heart and deepest desires, wondered when he would corner her next, when she would feel his breath on her neck and his hands dangerously tight around her wrists.

Hermione sunk deeper into the water and folded her arms across her knees.

She washed her hair as she thought of what to say to her friends tomorrow. She was certainly ready to tell them everything, but she didn’t know how. How would she begin her story? Meeting Riddle in her father’s study, perhaps. Abraxas and Alfyn already knew that, but Eleanor and Victoria did not. Hermione had wanted to keep the subject of Riddle from them as long as possible. Victoria had been a Slytherin and Eleanor in Ravenclaw, but they had both been a part of the long list of girls that fawned over Riddle at Hogwarts. Until now, the idea of telling them that he had cornered her purposefully several times, that he had taken an apprenticeship with her father, and that she had been to his flat, had not seemed like a good one. They would dissolve into titters and inadvertently freak out no matter what, but it was time to tell them.

Towards the end of her bath, as the water began to grow cold, Hermione thought about the homework Riddle had given her. With a renewed sense of hope, she climbed out of the bathtub and dried off quickly. Not quite tired yet and determined, she wished to spend the next couple of hours before bed trying different methods of mental and wandless control of her inner magic.

She could only hope and pray that it worked, because if her magic darkened and refused to obey her, then the necklace may as well be poison in her veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update, yay! 
> 
> I did not expect to have this up so quickly, but again, it was a simple filler chapter and about half the length of my regular updates, which usually average around 10k words. 
> 
> Still, a few things happened in this chapter! We got to meet Alfyn Lestrange and witness his interaction with Tom. We also dove into Hermione's thoughts, and perhaps learned a few new things about what she is feeling about Tom. 
> 
> Next chapter is, of course, the much anticipated Hallowe'en Ball. I'm excited for you all to see what I have planned :)
> 
> Thank you for the continuous support! Your comments and kudos push me to write better and faster xx


	7. The Hallowe'en Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much anticipated Hallowe'en Ball chapter has arrived! 12.5k words await you...
> 
> If you want to see my inspiration for Hermione's dress, check out this beautiful sketch: http://mrsdepew.com/wedding--evening-gowns/1940s-evening-gown-with-2.html

“I still can’t believe you’re taking _private_ lessons with Tom Riddle,” said Victoria Selwyn, who was twirling on her toes this way and that in front of the floor length mirror.

“Don’t say it like _that_ ,” groaned Hermione. “But me either…” And she went back to sitting still for her house-elf Lolpey, who was tugging at her curly hair.

Hermione had Floo’d to Lestrange Manor on her lunch break Monday to explain the situation with her necklace and Tom Riddle to Abraxas Malfoy, Alfyn Lestrange, Victoria Selwyn, and Eleanor Greengrass. Hermione had hoped that Riddle, who had promised to drop by _Secondhand Tomes_ to pass along something pertaining to her research, had not arrived during the lunch hour she was gone. Unfortunately, he had, and the shop’s owner, Robert Ross, had passed along his gift when Hermione returned from Alfyn’s manor home.

The conversation with her friends went as well as Hermione expected it to. Victoria and Eleanor squealed when she told them of meeting Riddle in her father’s study, and then challenging him in the small space of her linen closet. Abraxas and Alfyn had scowled; Hermione had told the boys of meeting Riddle before, but wisely left out the closet confrontation.

She went into great detail about retrieving the necklace from _Borgin and Burkes_ and what had transpired at the, now infamous, ‘dinner party’ with her father and Riddle. The boys’ concern was palpable when Hermione revealed what she and Riddle had learned of her cursed necklace so far. In the end, though, she had not told them the complete truth:

 _“You thought he was a dark wizard?”_ Eleanor had gasped when Hermione first revealed her suspicions of Riddle’s magic. Abraxas and Alfyn looked uncomfortable.

 _“Well…yes,”_ Hermione said. _“At first, I didn’t really understand what I felt around him. My suspicions were partly correct. To skip to the point, he’s offered to help me. I won’t say why, partly because I don’t know, and partly because I don’t really understand it myself.”_

_“What do you mean?” asked Abraxas, his features set so seriously, such a rare occurrence, that Hermione was taken aback. Her heart melted slightly at his palpable concern for her._

_“I mean he’s a natural magic_ and _essence bonder, and so he can help figure out what’s going on with my necklace and magic in ways that I can’t.”_

The girls had had no idea what essence bonding was, and Hermione had quickly explained that it was when a wizard or witch had such inane control over their own inner magic, that they could feel the magical essence of another who wielded the same powers.

_“It’s normally only achievable with a runic spell,” Hermione explained further, “but Riddle is somehow, impossibly, a natural.”_

_“Well so are you, apparently,” Abraxas said, seeming unsurprised by her previous comments. Hermione wondered if he knew already knew about Riddle’s extraordinary powers._

_“I thought so too,” replied Hermione, “although I think it may be something different.” She took a deep breath at this point, preparing to dive into the revelation of her wretched piece of jewelry - of which Eleanor had complimented her on the moment they had seen each other, much to Hermione’s amusement. “My necklace, we think, is cursed.”_

_“Cursed how,” said Alfyn. Abraxas sat still, gaping in worry, while Victoria whispered, “Oh, Hermione,” into the fingers covering her mouth in horror._

_“I can’t gain control of my magic,” explained Hermione. “It only reacts around…dark magic, I guess,” she finished quietly._

_“And_ Tom _is helping you with this?” Abraxas asked in concern and disbelief. Hermione raised a questioning brow._

_“He is,” she reiterated. “He understands this...sort of subject matter.”_

_“Yeah, I bet he does,” scoffed Abraxas. Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously and Alfyn shot him a dark look._

_“What do you mean he understands it?” asked Victoria, looking between Hermione and Abraxas._

It was here that Hermione had questioned herself. She wanted to tell them that Riddle practiced dark magic, she wanted to tell _someone._ She had prepared herself to tell them, thinking of the repercussions and weighing the pros and cons. There weren’t any pros. They would react negatively; who wouldn’t? They knew that she, Hermione, was not afraid of studying the Dark Arts, but practicing it was on a different level.

Abraxas and Alfyn, she thought, may be more understanding. She even wondered if they already knew, since they were both friends with Riddle. She wouldn’t be surprised if the two men, who had always been reckless and adventurous, afraid of nothing, had tried their own dark spells from their father’s library collections.

It was Eleanor and Victoria’s reactions that Hermione worried about. No matter how much they had fawned over Riddle in their Hogwarts days, they would not excuse him dabbling in the Dark Arts. Hermione did not want anyone telling her to stay away from Riddle. In different circumstances, she would listen. But right now, he was her only hope. Without him, she would be left with a slim chance of breaking the curse on her own. She would have no natural essence bonder on her side to aid in research or understand what was happening to her. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed Tom Riddle.

 _“He’s like me,”_ Hermione had decided to say. _“He’s not afraid of knowledge. He has read and studied the Dark Arts, just as I have.”_

_“Will you have to do any dark magic to break the curse?” asked Eleanor, grimacing._

_“We’re hoping it doesn’t come to that,” lied Hermione. Riddle had already told her they most likely_ would _have to try different kinds of magic. Fighting the Dark Arts with the Dark Arts, in this case, was likely._

_“I hope not,” said Victoria. “But under the circumstances, it seems like the only option. And honestly, who cares if it means you’ll be ok.”_

Eleanor and Victoria were understanding of this, but Hermione was glad she had kept Riddle’s secret from them. It did not feel like the right time to tell them that yet. In the end, she had shied away from the entire truth, but telling her friends had been a weight lifted off her shoulders.

_“What exactly is this curse?” Abraxas asked this, and Hermione took a deep breath. She dreaded explaining this part the most, worried how her friends would think of her._

She had carefully and calmly explained Riddle’s theory about the necklace’s intentions. They were horrified that the necklace was poisoning her magic, darkening her soul. Suddenly, the girls were very supportive of Riddle helping her to solve the mystery. Abraxas and Alfyn had been unusually quiet, probably due to shock.

Hermione reassured them that she did not feel any different yet despite having worn the necklace for nearly eight weeks now. This comforted them somewhat, the prospect that the magic infiltrating Hermione’s system worked slowly. It had brought Hermione herself some form of comfort in the two weeks since Riddle discovered what the curse was. It only meant that they had more time to figure it out. It also meant that Hermione was safe in her own mind, for now.

She had left soon after this, as her lunch break was nearly over, and she needed to return to work. The four friends had asked their questions, and she promised she would keep them updated on her symptoms and situation.

Abraxas had walked her out.

 _“I think we need to talk some more about this,”_ he had said, leading her toward the Lestrange’s guest Floo with a hand on her back.

_“I think so,” replied Hermione. “I think you’ve left out quite a lot about Riddle when I’ve asked about him.”_

_“I think you have, too,” he shot back._

_Hermione crossed her arms in defense and moved to stand in front of him. “I didn’t feel comfortable sharing everything with them,” she said, “not Victoria and Eleanor, anyway.”_

_“So, you know more than you’re letting on?”_

_“Yes, but so do you,” hissed Hermione, keeping her voice low. Abraxas clenched his jaw, and then his fists, before running a hand through his hair._

_“That’s different!” he whispered harshly. “You know more about your own healththan you’re letting on - ”_

_“I’m not talking about the curse, you dolt, I’m talking about Riddle!”_

_Abraxas stilled. “Oh…well then I guess it’s not that different.”_

_“Exactly,” huffed Hermione. “What do you know that you haven’t told me?”_

_“What do_ you _know that you haven’t told_ me?”

_Hermione growled under her breath. “Is what you have on Riddle a pressing matter?” she asked._

_“I don’t know…” he admitted, looking frightened for a moment. “Is yours?”_

_“I don’t know…” she hesitated. It was really a matter if she trusted Riddle or not._

_“Why do I have a feeling we’re talking about the same thing?” said Abraxas desperately._

_Hermione smirked, finding a bit of humor in the situation. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed two in the afternoon. Her lunch break was officially over._

_“So do I,” she sighed. “Should we just spit it out on the count of three?”_

_Abraxas snorted and surveyed her for a moment with icy gray eyes. “Fine. One…two…three -”_

_“Riddle_ practices _the Dark Arts -”_

_“He’s a Parselmouth -”_

_They both looked at each other with wide eyes._

_“I know,” they both said in unison. Hermione looked relieved, but Abraxas seemed uncomfortable._

_“He told you?” they both asked at the same time again, shocked._

_“Yes,” Hermione said, deciding to speak. “Well he did about being a Parselmouth. It’s rare but not uncommon, isn’t it? As for the Dark Arts, I was quite wary at first - I still am. It does turn me off of him a bit…but I need his help.”_

_“Yeah, I know,” he said begrudgingly. “I just wish I knew what his intentions were…” he said quietly, almost as if he was speaking to himself._

_“His intentions?”_

_“Well…yeah? Tom doesn’t help just anyone… He doesn’t exactly do anything out of the goodness of his heart.”_

_Hermione barked a laugh. “I’ve sort of pieced that one together for myself, actually.”_

In the end, they had agreed to talk about it later. Their concerns about Riddle were out in the open, and apparently mutual knowledge. As a result, Hermione felt the pressure on her shoulders dissolve even more with the discovery that her best friend knew some of the more questionable characteristics of Tom Riddle. Despite this, Abraxas still refused to budge when she pressed him for more information on Riddle's personal life. Abraxas claimed to know nothing that would be of interest to her.

Two days later, he had stopped by _Secondhand Tomes_ during her morning shift looking anxious but pleased to see her.

 _“How are you feeling?”_ he had asked the moment Hermione left a customer to join him at the front desk. _“Not in a deadly mood to Crucio me or anything, are you?”_

It was the first time anyone had made light of Hermione’s situation, and honestly, she was grateful for it. Abraxas had always been good at that: finding humor in dreadful situations. It made her feel better, somehow, that he found a way to joke about her curse.

He had asked constantly about her condition. Hermione assured him that nothing had changed in two days and that, no, she was not in a mood to torture or maim an innocent today. Then, they talked about the ball. Abraxas invited Hermione, Eleanor and Victoria to Malfoy Manor for the entire Saturday, for brunch with their dates in the morning, and then to prepare and pamper themselves in a guest suite before the ball.

They planned, and Hermione regretfully turned down an invitation to lunch after her shift ended. She waved him off with a kiss to his cheek - lingering longer than usual (as he tended to do in the last month when bidding her goodbye) - and smiling fondly at his flushed ears as he stumbled and stammered uncharacteristically out of the shop. In a rare display of excitement over the upcoming festivities, she daydreamed constantly about the upcoming Saturday for the remainder of her Wednesday shift. Social events had never been her forte, and yet she could not recall being more eager for one. Still, she always enjoyed herself when she attended events with Abraxas. As friends, they never took each other too seriously. Moreover, they always shared a laugh at the overly-sophisticated and false niceties that was pureblood culture. From how often the status of her relationship with Abraxas had been questioned as of late, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if attending an event with him would be different this time.

“Hand me that pin, will you ‘Mione?” asked Eleanor Greengrass suddenly, breaking through the silence of clanking makeup compacts and the magical radio playing a jazz tune in the corner.

Hermione glanced to her side, being careful not to bother Lolpey, who had apparated from home to do her hair. Eleanor was sitting on the floor beneath her, in front of another floor-length mirror that Victoria had asked Abraxas to bring in for them, and fighting with a comb.

“Sure,” said Hermione, handing her a gold pin off of the vanity. “It’s coming together nicely,” she said, referring to the hairstyle Eleanor was trying to achieve on her own.

“Yes,” huffed Victoria on Hermione’s other side. She was not quite as helpless as Hermione when it came to extravagant hair styles, but preferred to let her house-elves perform the more menial tasks. “If only I had the talent.”

“Good thing you have Mipsy, then,” said Hermione, smiling at Victoria’s house-elf. The small creature looked bashfully at the floor, its eyes watering in happiness. Victoria's eyes rolled at Hermione's display of affection for the house-elf. “Are you excited to dance with Palmorus Carrow?” asked Hermione.

Victoria grimaced and ran a finger through a wavy blonde curl with a pleased look. She nodded at Mipsy to continue with the same style, settling into her chair to allow the elf to finish.

“I suppose,” she sighed, as if it was a horrid thought.

“You suppose?” asked Hermione, surprised. She had always suspected Victoria had a crush on Abraxas, but Palmorus Carrow had always had a crush on Victoria - at least at Hogwarts - and was not terrible looking by any means.

“I’d much rather dance with your date, Hermione,” she said, pinking her cheeks in the adjacent vanity mirror with pinched fingers.

Eleanor shot Hermione a surprised and slightly humored look, her dark eyebrows raised in silent communication. Hermione gave a dry and empty laugh and tried not to take offense to Victoria’s slightly standoffish and hostile tone. She had always thought her sandy-blonde girlfriend and Abraxas would make a great match, but Hermione couldn’t help but second guess her matchmaking skills now that everyone seemed to think she should be with Abraxas instead.

“I will make sure Brax saves you a few dances then. I’m sure he was planning to anyway,” said Hermione coyly. Eleanor snorted disbelievingly to her right, and Hermione's lips twitched in a frown when she glanced over at Victoria, who was failing to conceal an eager and hungry smile. Hermione, momentarily, felt slightly possessive of her date. The ball had not even started yet and already he was being pined after by another woman. It was unfair to be annoyed with Victoria, but she couldn't help it. Feeling slightly challenged by her friend and just the slightest bit immature at her response, Hermione stared pointedly into the mirror, watching Lolpey's wand movements and the array of chestnut curls falling into place.

“Do you think _Mr. Riddle_ will save _you_ a dance?” asked Victoria several minutes later, waggling her eyebrows.

“Don’t say his name like that,” huffed Hermione. “And I’m sure he won’t.” But she couldn’t help but wonder if he _would_. They were on good enough terms to share a dance, weren't they?

“I can’t help but be slightly wary of him after what you told us,” said Eleanor seriously, “but you two would look rather striking together, I expect.”

Hermione could see, in the mirror, that an embarrassed grimace had passed over her features. “Don’t say such a thing, Eleanor,” she hissed. “Mr. Riddle hasn’t given any indication that he is interested.”

And it was true that he had not. Many times he had invaded her personal space in a way that took her breath away, but it was never in a gentle or romantic way. He had always been angry with her, which was certainly not an indication of harbored feelings. He was interested for all the wrong reasons, it seemed. Interested in her father, their heirlooms, her necklace, her research, her family, her magic. Interested in material things, but not her. Riddle didn’t seem the type to be interested in someone like her, or anyone for that matter. He was too independent, too serious and brooding. Too secretive.

“He’s helping you, someone he barely knows, and is getting nothing in return. Shouldn’t that be indication enough that he feels something for you?” said Victoria in a subtlety hopeful tone, no doubt wanting Hermione to end up with anyone but Abraxas.

Hermione just shook her head. "I think it is a ridiculous notion to believe that Mr. Riddle feels anything for anyone."

**oOo**

“I’m going to save the polite manners act for later,” said Eleanor nearly an hour later, smiling at their reflections in one of the large floor-length mirrors, “because we look fucking fantastic!”

Victoria looked scandalized for a moment before joining in with Hermione's giggles at Eleanor’s crude vocabulary. She always surprised them with how vulgar her mouth could be.

“Palmorus won’t be able to keep his hands off of you,” said Hermione, awing over Victoria, hostilities momentarily forgotten. She was wearing her long blonde hair in large waves down her back, with classic pin curls of the decade shaping her face. Her dress was light blue, complimenting her gray eyes and fair skin tone.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Victoria with a groan as she applied more rouge for a deeper blush. She was already wearing a face full of makeup, with heavy eye makeup and a pink rouge on her lips.

Eleanor laughed. “I wonder how the boys are getting along. I fear poor Mr. Carrow is getting left out.”

Eleanor was doing exquisite justice to her flowing, light orange gown, looking festive with dark shadow around her green eyes and nude gloss on her lips. She had wrestled her light brown locks into an elegant bun that turned her finished ensemble into a stunning mixture of sophistication and daring.

“Oh, I’m sure Brax and Alfyn are giving him a hard time,” agreed Hermione. “Did you see how they were teasing him at brunch?” She sucked in as Lolpey zipped up her gown.

It really was a stunning number, one that Victoria herself had convinced Hermione to buy the day they went shopping with Abraxas in Diagon Alley. Abraxas, who Hermione had not yet known was to be her date, had seen the dress on the rack in the store. But as he _was_ a forgetful man, had needed reminding of the color just a month later so he could buy a matching tie.

Hermione’s evening gown was French, a beautiful, slim and streamlined gown of a plum purple color. At one side of the bodice, it was draped in gathers: an excess of the velvet material it was made of. The material really was perfect for the cooler weather. The skirt was full length, brushing the floor perfectly above her silver high heels. There was a draped, scallop embellishment on the right side of her skirt, sewed down the middle of the gathers. It connected at the top to the straps of her dress, which were about an inch in thickness.

“That gown is breathtaking,” sighed Victoria dreamily, looking playfully jealous. “I should’ve gone with a more daring color than blue,” she pouted.

“I’d say that neckline is pretty daring, Victoria,” snorted Eleanor. “Not that yours isn’t, ‘Mione,” she added with a wink in the mirror.

“I know,” groaned Hermione, pulling up on the gown. The bodice was simple, with a basic square neckline, but it was quite low. With how tight it was, it pressed Hermione’s breasts in and up. Unlike Victoria's gown, the material of Hermione's was sturdy, and she therefore did not worry about any malfunctions.

“Hers _is_ daring,” said Victoria. “That’s why I told her to get it.”

“And you know what,” added Eleanor, “as horrid as that bloody cursed necklace is, the emerald and silver setting looks stunning with that dress.”

Hermione couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree that her curse finally had a positive after all, and the three of them giggled at her expense.

They dispersed, eager to make some last-minute touch-ups before the men arrived to take them down to the ballroom. The guests were already arriving, but Victoria insisted over brunch that they must all be "fashionably late."

Hermione sat still as Lolpey applied more sticking charms to her hair. Her normally tight curls had been styled in large waves and brushed out to look even more sleek and elegant. The top pieces had been pinned high behind her ears to stay out of her face, resembling a chignon.

Hermione joined the other girls at the vanity to check her makeup as Abraxas’s house-elf popped in to let them know the men were on their way. The girls thanked the small creature and promptly dismissed their own house-elves for the night.

Hermione’s makeup was natural and light, with pink rouge on her cheeks and lips. She was just applying more mascara with a small brush when there was a knock at the door.

Victoria squealed, causing Hermione to nearly drop the mascara she was trying to close. Eleanor and Victoria made no move to open the door, only moving to hastily apply more lipstick, so Hermione stood, spritzed herself with cologne, and strode towards the door.

“Wow,” breathed Alfyn the moment Hermione opened the door.

“Hello boys,” she smiled, holding the door at an angle so that it blocked the other girls from view. She could hear them scrambling around to make last minute trips to the mirror. “You all look very handsome.”

“Nice to see you again, Hermione,” said Palmorus Carrow with a smile.

“You as well,” said Hermione just as Victoria came around the corner.

“Wow,” said Alfyn again, grinning at her. His jaw finally dropped when his own date appeared. “Well, aren’t we lucky lads,” he said to the other men before offering his arm to Eleanor.

Palmorus quickly swept Victoria away, who was blatantly staring at Abraxas. Hermione couldn’t blame her. He looked extremely handsome, and apparently, only had eyes for her. The idea made her blush shyly. He had not spoken a word since she opened the door. His shock of white-blonde hair had been cut again, remaining shorter on the sides and longer up top. It was styled in a coif off of his forehead and gave his long face an even sharper, angular look. His blue eyes were wide beneath his darker brows and looked even lighter in color than usual due to his dress robes, which were black with a white dress shirt, decorated with a plum colored bowtie to match her gown.

Hermione peaked over his shoulder where Victoria and Eleanor were already being ushered down the corridor.

“Have you lost your voice?” teased Hermione, taking the opportunity to give him another once-over as his eyes dropped to do the same to her.

“Can you blame me?” he croaked and promptly cleared his throat. “You look…stunning, ‘Mione.”

She blushed even harder at his compliment and the uncommon seriousness in his gaze and tone. It made her nervous and excited all at one.

“So do you,” she said, grinning. “Really handsome.”

“Shall we then?” he asked, finally moving and holding out an arm. Hermione shut the door to the guest room and took it.

“Thank you again for letting us stay the day here,” she said as they moved to catch up with the group.

“Yeah, it was fun,” he smiled, his boyish personality returning. “We all clean up nice.”

Hermione hummed in agreement. “You should save a dance for Victoria,” she hinted quietly while they still remained out of earshot.

“I was already planning on it,” said Abraxas, glancing towards the staircase that Victoria and Palmorus were already descending. “As much as I would love to dance with my beautiful date all night, Alfyn and I already agreed to be her knights in shining armor at some point later. Carrow is a right prick.”

Hermione laughed and clung onto his arm tighter as she carefully took the first few stairs, holding her dress up so as not to trip.

“I already can’t wait to get these shoes off,” she said through clenched teeth when they reached the bottom.

Merry chatter immediately reached their ears from the ballroom, and they joined the crowd that was pouring in from the foyer. Hermione glimpsed several familiar faces in the foyer: Rodolphus and Reinhard Lestrange, Alfyn's father and older brother; the withered and retired Professor Merrythought, Hermione's former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher; an older Hufflepuff boy she remembered from the Slug Club at school.

The Malfoy ballroom was always exquisite. Bare of any decor, it had stunning white marble floors and mirrored walls - a stunning resemblance of the Hall of Mirrors. Furthermore, the long rectangular ceiling looked like a replica of those at Versailles. To accentuate the incredible artistry further, gold trim lined the crown molding throughout the room, and three brilliant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling in a mesmerizing line of soft light. Tonight, the normal grandiosity of the room was brought even further to life.

The chandeliers were lit, but the sconces on the wall were not. Instead, the ballroom was illuminated only by candles. Thousands of them floated above the heads of the guests, reminding Hermione of the ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. It gave the room a beautiful but eerie, orange glow and was perfect for the holiday they were celebrating. As a whole, the room was decorated with fall colors. Tables were lined with red and yellow drapes and even the food seemed to have a color scheme.

“This looks…”

“Amazing?” Abraxas finished for her. “Yeah, I know. Mother went all out - oh look! There’s our parents now.”

He turned them right and led Hermione through the dispersing crowd. Sure enough, standing off to the side of the room was Hector Granger, conversing loudly with Septimus and Catriona Malfoy. Their eyes lit up the moment they saw their offspring striding towards them. Hermione and Abraxas did not miss the rare, small but pleased smile that tugged at the corner of Mr. Malfoy’s mouth, who was usually a very cool and intimidating man.

“Oh, Hermione,” Catriona gasped and held out her hands. Hermione grinned and let herself be pulled into a stiff hug, following Mrs. Malfoy's lead as she kissed the air between their cheeks. “You look just beautiful, my dear,” she grinned, her blue eyes shining. “And you, Abraxas - so handsome,” she directed towards her son. “Don’t they look so lovely, darling?”

Septimus Malfoy nodded once at his wife’s question. He took Hermione’s hand and kissed her knuckles.

“Quite the pair,” he said. “You look lovely, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione smiled before kissing her own father’s cheek. “You have both done an unbelievable job. The room looks beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Catriona. “I needed to go above and beyond. The Minister for Magic and his son is attending, as well as the Head of Abraxas’s department!”

“Oh, you don’t say?” beamed Hector. “I really must introduce myself to Mr. Tuft, then.”

“I’ll introduce you, Hector,” said Septimus. “I’m interested to hear his opinions and policies on the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Why, yes, as would I,” chimed Catriona. “Such a controversial topic.”

“Did you hear that Tuft is planning on reinstating the idea of a political relationship between the Ministers for Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister? What a preposterous idea - ”

“But perhaps wise after the simultaneous reign of terror of that Muggle leader, Hitler, and Grindelwald in Europe,” said Hector, interrupting Mr. Malfoy’s rant.

Hermione turned to Abraxas with a scrunched nose. He was apparently thinking the same thing as she, and immediately made their excuses and swept her towards the dance floor. If their parents were going to dive into a political discussion, they wanted to remain far away. They laughed as they escaped to the other side of the room. Glasses of champagne were immediately handed to them as they crossed the dance floor, which was not yet being utilized to its full extent.

“Let’s go over here. I see the others,” said Abraxas, and in a bold move dropped his arm and took her hand in his, intwining their fingers. Hermione did not pull away but smiled at the back of his head as he pulled her through the crowd. Still, his actions were genuinely sweet but extremely confusing. With Cedrella’s claims of her unresolved attraction towards him and Alfyn’s hints at their relationship earlier in the week echoing in her mind, Hermione had emptied her glass of champagne before they even reached the other side of the room.

Eleanor and Alfyn were leaning up against the mirrored wall, talking quietly.

“Making the rounds yet social butterfly?” asked Alfyn with a mocking smirk and a knowing grin in Hermione's direction. Abraxas scowled at his dig and pulled Hermione up next to him.

“We were just escaping - woah,” he said, noticing her empty glass. “Thirsty?”

“Tipsy,” said Hermione. “Well, I’m wanting to be.”

“Better get you another one then,” said Abraxas, grinning. “I’ll be right back. Eleanor?”

“Yes, please,” she said gratefully.

Abraxas turned and strode back into the growing crowd. When Hermione looked up, Eleanor and Alfyn were both smirking knowingly and mischeviously down at her.

“What?” she huffed defensively, crossing her arms.

“Oh, nothing,” hummed Alfyn, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t start with me,” warned Hermione, peaking over her shoulder. Abraxas was at one of the tables lined with wine, champagne and liquor, laughing heartily with an older man. He met her eye across the room and winked.

Hermione turned back to see Alfyn and Eleanor smiling even wider at her.

“Don’t,” she whined, and they both threw up their hands in surrender.

“Fine,” quipped Alfyn. “I won’t say anything about how Brax can’t take his eyes off of you or how you can’t stop blushing.” Hermione’s hands immediately came up to shield her warm cheeks.

“And I won’t say anything about how Victoria will probably try to steal your man tonight,” added Eleanor.

Hermione felt an unfamiliar burst of annoyance at her words, but whether it was for their pestering or Victoria’s blatant crush, she did not know.

“He’s not my man,” she sighed in return, but said nothing of Victoria.

The three of them began talking avidly when they noticed the Minister for Magic and the rest of his family enter the ballroom. The room was filling up quickly, and Hermione was sure everyone had to have arrived by now. She couldn’t help but scan the room twice over for her recent nemesis-turned-tutor. She supposed that's what Tom Riddle was now: her tutor. Despite only having one lesson together, his goal was to improve her magical capacity. She wondered if he would make an appearance tonight, like he said he would.

Abraxas rejoined them soon after Victoria and Palmorus sidled up to their group. He handed Hermione and Eleanor a flute of champagne. With her anxiety over Abraxas somewhat quelled, Hermione chose to drink this one slowly.

“Abraxas, this place looks incredible,” gushed Victoria, sipping delicately from her cocktail glass.

“Catriona really did do a great job,” agreed Eleanor.

The six of them chatted happily for half an hour, more friends and acquaintances from Hogwarts joining their circle. There were several Slytherin boys Hermione recognized from her own year as well as a few older. Abraxas and Alfyn seemed to know them well, at least, because they remained engaged in easy conversation with a few boys Hermione knew to be called Emaex Avery, Lionel Mulciber, Aveus Nott, and Victor Rosier. Eleanor’s older brother Frederick, who had been a Ravenclaw, also made an appearance. He had been two years above Abraxas and Riddle, as was the brooding black-haired man that stood quietly next to him: Orion Black. He was Cedrella Black’s cousin, and nothing like her. Hermione had never liked him but had also never really spoken to him.

Hermione became extremely elated (with the help of her third glass of champagne) when two boys from Gryffindor appeared at her side with eager greetings of hello. Jameson Finch-Fletchly and Elphiard Longbottom had been her favorite Gryffindors to study with in her year. They made her promise a dance to them both before moving on to join their own dates who Hermione did not recognize. Marietta Fawley chatted happily with Eleanor, one of her friends from school, and a Hufflepuff. They had apparently grown up together and were distant cousins.

Hermione was quite enjoying herself with Abraxas and their large and rather rowdy group of Hogwarts alumni until she saw a group of girls approaching towards the end of the second hour. She immediately shared an annoyed look with Victoria and Eleanor, who were watching the girls’ approach with equal disdain. Marietta Fawley did not look too pleased, either.

“Abraxas!” cried the girl with black curls at the front of the pack. “Such a lovely party. Hello, cousin,” she smirked, inclining her head towards Orion Black.

“Walburga,” grunted Orion in return.

Walburga Black was a nasty girl from the year above Hermione. She was a Slytherin through and through, and a right bully. She was never cruel to Hermione, but she was to everyone else who was not a pureblood, and for that reason Hermione despised her.

“Hello, Abbott,” Walburga sneered to the pretty red head on Orion’s arm. She cowered and Orion rolled his eyes. The tension was palpable, and everyone knew why. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was more intent than any other Sacred Twenty-Eight on keeping their house and bloodline pure. For that reason, Orion and Walburga had been betrothed to one another since their Hogwarts years. No wedding had happened yet, but the word was Orion was certainly trying to avoid the altar as long as possible, if his choice of date was any indication.

“Glad you made it, Walburga, girls,” said Abraxas politely. The lack of sincerity in his tone was clear to his closest friends, though.

Hermione turned her chin away from the group. She did not want to speak nor make eye contact with them. Walburga was the worst of them all, but her younger cousin Lucretia Black and their two other Ravenclaw friends, Sophia Parkinson and Olive Hornby, were not much better.

Luckily, they were all fairly pretty, and were promptly swept away to dance by some of Abraxas’s other Slytherin friends. Orion Black and his date swiftly followed, and Marietta was asked to dance by Emaex Avery.

“Thank Merlin,” huffed Victoria. “I had tea with Parkinson and both Black girls last week - our fathers are doing business - and they’re just dreadful little cockroaches.”

Abraxas laughed the loudest at this. Hermione knew he had had a ‘fling’ with Walburga during his seventh year at Hogwarts, and according to him, she was just as dreadful as Victoria described after he broke up with her. Victoria was looking pleased that she had made Abraxas laugh until Palmorus asked her to dance. The music was growing more cheerful as more couples made their way from socializing and drinking to the dance floor.

“I think it’s time I take you for a spin,” said Abraxas cheekily.

Hermione laughed and wrapped her arm through his. “Be careful, I’ve already had four glasses of champagne.”

Abraxas led her towards the dance floor. “I won’t let you fall,” he smiled reassuringly.

Hermione hid her grin by looking over her shoulder, towards her other friends that were dancing with their partners. Abraxas swung her around to face him, grinning as he slipped a hand onto her lower back. A soft jazz tune was playing from the incredible full orchestra in the corner, and Abraxas and Hermione joined in with the swaying couples around them.

“Seriously, ‘Mione, you look…really beautiful tonight,” said Abraxas softly. His breath tickled the top of her forehead as he spoke, and Hermione’s nerves kept her from glancing up at him. The sudden bashfulness she was experiencing around her best friend was a thought she would ponder later.

“Not that you don’t always,” he added quickly when Hermione did not immediately answer.

She chuckled. “Brax, you haven’t seen me this dolled up since the Yule Ball at Lestrange Manor last year. I’ll accept the compliment.”

“You looked beautiful that night, too,” he said.

“You probably say that to all the girls,” joked Hermione, looking up with a raised brow.

“But I mean it to you.”

Her heart began racing uncharacteristically. She rarely heard Abraxas speak so seriously, or seen his ice-blue eyes so sincere. The compliments - and how wholeheartedly he bestowed them - as well as the admiring looks he kept giving her, made her anxious and excited all at once. Perhaps she was overthinking, stuck in her head after the many jokes about their relationship status and their parent's obvious earnest to match them. Hermione wondered if Abraxas had fretted over the gossip as she had for so many months now. Had it forced him to look at their friendship in a new perspective, too? Was he as interested as her to see if this night would be any different than the countless others they had spent together? It certainly already felt different.

“You look really nice tonight, too,” replied Hermione eventually, who had been watching him curiously for several quiet moments.

“Thank you,” said Abraxas, pulling her closer. Her eyes squared in on the ornate silver buttons of his dress shirt, which was tailored to fit his chest snugly. He really did look nice tonight, and every female present clearly knew it, too. Throughout the evening, Hermione had not missed the many admiring and swooning looks bestowed on her date. She recognized several stares as envious - envious that she was in attendence with the most handsome, eligible bachelor among pureblood society. She could never see it like that. Hermione could never see Abraxas as anything other than her best friend and a handsome and brilliant man. How could the majority of the Wizarding world simply toss him into an 'Eligible Bachelor' category? He was so much more than that.

Hermione smiled softly up at him, lost in thought as he led her in a swaying slow dance. Being with him tonight felt right, normal. Any time spent with Abraxas was genuine, fun, relaxing and easy. Would that change if they decided to take their friendship a step further? She didn't think so. First and foremost, Abraxas would always be her dearest friend; nothing could change that. But she couldn't help but feel that something was changing between them. For the first time, as Abraxas began rubbing circles on her back, she could distinguish her anxiety as curiosity and excited nerves instead of fear. A part of her was curious to see what lied beneath the strong barrier of comradery between them. She was not anxious because she was scared. She was anxious because, for once, she did not immediately have the answer to something. But she refused to look at Abraxas - at her romantic life - as a puzzle. Her relationship with him was not a problem that needed to be solved. If they both mutually desired to take their friendship further, it should happen naturally. It should be easy, genuine and right, like it already was.

Hermione dropped her forehead onto his chest, shaking her head slightly and groaning under her breath. She was being silly, thinking about something they had not discussed or acted upon. Instead, she decided to provoke a topic that had been on her mind for days.

“Remember our conversation about Riddle the other day?” she said, tearing through the comfortable silence and soft hum of the violin and cello duet.

“What about it?” said Abraxas, sounding wary.

“You know how you said he was a Parselmouth, and then I said I already knew that, and then I mentioned that it was rare but not _completely_ uncommon?”

Abraxas snorted at her explanation. “Yeah?”

“Well I did some research -”

“Of course, you did.”

“- found that it isn’t as rare as I thought.”

Abraxas stiffened slightly. “What are you on about?”

“Well, I mean it’s a natural trait for some, of course, but for others it can be learned just like any other language,” said Hermione.

“Dumbledore.”

“What?”

“Professor Dumbledore,” repeated Abraxas. “We had a conversation once and he mentioned having a book that instructed the reader on learning to speak Parseltongue. He was giving it a go, he said.”

Hermione blinked up at him once, twice, and then laughed. “That man keeps getting stranger and stranger…”

“So maybe Riddle has just learned some phrases,” Abraxas shrugged, twirling her suddenly. The song had changed again and was more upbeat.

“I don’t think so,” said Hermione. “I just wanted to get your opinion. I saw him with a snake once, you know. Did I tell you all that? It was a small one I was playing with, when we had that conversation in the garden. That was when I figured it out. It was a completely random thought that just popped into my head, but he was so comfortable with it - and it with him. And then I remembered you telling me at Hogwarts that Riddle kept a snake in the dormitory during your third year!”

Abraxas stared blankly down at her, but his eyes seemed to be avoiding her directly, staring at the center of her forehead.

“I think he's a natural Parselmouth,” Hermione mused aloud. “But I figured if anyone truly knew, it would be you. Riddle probably thinks I have exhausted the boundaries of our acquaintance asking him all those questions about his magic and the Dark Arts. He's not someone...well I don't exactly fancy the idea of pushing his buttons. Plus, now that I’m recalling it, when he didn’t deny being one, I said something about the ability tying back to his heritage. Do you know anything of his family?”

Of course, Riddle had admitted to Hector Granger that he was not particularly proud of who his ancestors were. Their families were still a secret: an unspoken subject between Hermione and Tom Riddle. She doubted he would ever loosen up around her enough to speak openly about his past, and Hermione certainly did not believe there would ever be an appropriate time or setting to tell Riddle about her own family history: her mother’s untimely and gruesome death or the overshadowed, rocky relationship with her father. Riddle’s subtle claims about his heritage earlier in September, though, had been something Hermione was sure not to mention when she spoke with her friends on Monday. He had admitted himself during their first lesson that his family was a source of anger and shame for him, and therefore led to sporadic outbursts of his magic. If it was something that affected him that much, Hermione did not feel comfortable sharing something so private - even if it was Riddle. The idea that she even knew something so personal about him - a man notorious for his secretive independence and mysterious persona - made her feel very strange indeed, almost important in a silly way.

“I don’t know much about his family,” said Abraxas in a much more convincing tone than usual when it came to the subject of Tom Riddle. “I guess you could ask him.”

Hermione hummed and looked up at him, a little breathless from the quicker waltz they had embarked on the minute before. “What else does Riddle _not_ tell you?”

Abraxas shook his head, but whether he was annoyed or humored or both, Hermione did not know. She softened her question with a smile and a squeeze of his shoulder, suddenly feeling rather sheepish for asking about Tom Riddle in the middle of their dance. Her curiosity always seemed to win over, no matter how inappropriate the setting.

"Tom doesn’t tell me much of anything to begin with. I’ve told you everything I know… My knowledge has run out, so I guess you’ll have to pester him with your questions.”

“Riddle doesn’t like my questions,” huffed Hermione.

“I have no doubt.”

“Maybe I’ll get the chance to annoy him tonight,” she continued with an air of intrigue as she swept her eyes searchingly across the ballroom. “Is he coming? He told Alfyn and I that he was last Sunday.”

“The last time I saw him was Monday night,” Abraxas said almost uncomfortably, swallowing thickly around the latter of his statement. “He said he was attending.”

Hermione pulled back from him abruptly, standing still even as Abraxas went to guide them to the left. They stumbled slightly before she regained her composure.

“You saw him Monday night?” she asked incredulously.

Abraxas ran a hand through his hair before returning it to her back, lower than before. “Uh…yeah. He met with Alfyn and I and...some of the other lads.”

“He cancelled our lesson to hang out with you lot?” gaped Hermione. “One would think a cursed necklace slowly trying to poison me with dark magic would be more important.”

“He uh…monthly poker at Victor Rosier’s,” he said. “We wouldn’t let him get out of it... Sorry, love.”

Hermione flushed at the new term of endearment but pressed on. “I don’t believe that for a second, but if that is your cover up for Merlin-knows-what, then fine. He could have at least offered to reschedule later in the week.”

Abraxas just shrugged. “Enough speculating. Tell me about your job.”

A slower tune began again, so they slowed their well-practiced steps. Hermione let Abraxas pull her closer once more and lead the way.

“It’s perfect,” sighed Hermione. “Well, it is for now. I’ve helped remodel the place, you know, and completely reorganized the stock and created a new system for inventory.”

“Of course, you did,” smirked Abraxas. “But what do you mean for now?”

“Well, I want something more fulfilling, of course. All this research I’m doing on the side, why shouldn’t I be able to do that for a living?”

“Apply to the Ministry, then."

“I already did -”

“Yeah, right out of Hogwarts," said Abraxas. "Now you have more experience: your own research with interesting findings… You have a stronger application.”

“Yes,” said Hermione firmly, nodding. “Yes, I do.”

“I mean that theory you have on runic magic reversing the effects of magic-induced injuries is brilliant and based in some fact that already exists. They’d be a fool not to hire you.”

Hermione smiled widely up at him and Abraxas met it with a dashing one of his own.

“Wow,” she said, raising her brows playfully. "You actually do listen to me when I ramble on about my research.”

Abraxas chuckled and drew a large circle on her back with his fingertips, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Only sometimes, when you’re not boring me to death.”

Hermione allowed herself to laugh at that, secretly hoping that it wasn’t completely true.

"In all seriousness, though," he continued, "you can bore me anytime you like."

A small smile curled up her lips at the words as her hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his bicep. "Good, because I plan to for a very long time."

Abraxas's fingers stretched along her waist. "Good."

A throat cleared. “May I cut in?”

Hermione and Abraxas’s shy smiles quivered and they turned to see Victoria. She was standing with a hopeful smile and hard stare at Hermione.

“Oh…oh yes, of course,” said Hermione, coming to her senses and pulling away from her dance partner. “I’ll just go find the food,” she said to Abraxas, who actually seemed disappointed to part with her.

He hid it with his regular charming, sociable smile as he took Victoria into his arms and danced them towards the center of the crowd.

Hermione smiled after them. They really did look good together - all blonde hair and light-colored eyes. But for the first time, her playful match-making idea left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She found Orion Black and his date at the refreshments table. Hermione had only spoken to him a couple times outside of school, but knew he wasn’t very pleasant. His date, however, looked familiar. She had been trying to remember her first name after Walburga Black had called her out earlier. Hermione filled a small plate of food with delicious fruits, cheeses and crackers, and joined the unusual pair standing off to the side. Orion was as pompous and unpleasant as Hermione remembered, but his date was very kind - the complete opposite of him. Her name was Lillian Abbott, and Hermione was finally able to place her when they recalled working on an Ancient Runes project together in school. She was sweet and kind and had been in Hufflepuff. Orion was clearly trying to anger his strict and prejudiced family as much as humanly possible in retaliation for having to marry his horrid cousin.

Lillian made for a lovely ten minutes of conversation until Orion practically grunted her away towards the bar. The Malfoy's had paid for a pop-up bar at the back of the room, and two well-dressed wizards stood behind it creating seasonal, fizzy cocktails in traditional Hallowe'en colors. Hermione was left standing on her own until she spotted her father across the room. It was only who he was talking to that made her stop in her tracks when she began to wander over. Tom Riddle stood next to Hector Granger, looking dark and daring in black dress robes with a charming smile lighting up his handsome features. His dark, nearly black hair was styled back out of his eyes as usual, but wavy locks curled near his ears and around his forehead. He fit in perfectly with the rest of the dapper crowd, not a hair out of place or a wrinkled strip of robe in sight.

Faced with the sudden urge to approach the master and apprentice, Hermione looked briefly over her shoulder to check her appearance in the mirrored wall. Her hair and dress was still charmed in place, but the lipstick had mostly rubbed off from eating and drinking. When she turned back to where her father was standing, Riddle was gone. The idea that he was actually here now, and she had no knowledge of his whereabouts, suddenly set her nerves on edge.

She needed some fresh air. The French doors that led to the large veranda and garden were already open, and so Hermione walked through them as composed as possible. She welcomed the cool air outside, although she supposed it was actually much colder without the warming enchantments placed on the balcony. More floating candles and decorative tables adorned the outside, and many people were spread about conversing with drinks in their hands and looking out over the vast gardens.

Hermione wanted to be alone, so it was a good thing she knew Malfoy Manor well. She slipped around the corner where the balcony wrapped around to the veranda at the back of the house. It was dark and undecorated along the south side, a subtle hint that the guests should stay near the party. Hermione found a quiet spot that overlooked Catriona Malfoy’s rose garden. Only a few bushes were in bloom with the season, and Hermione suspected magic was involved. She leaned over the railing and stared out towards the stables.

In the silence, she thought of Tom Riddle. He really did confuse her like no other. He was helping her, teaching her, and had been uncharacteristically open with her. And yet, he still held a power over her that had nothing to do with essence bonding magic. He still had the ability to make her nervous whenever he stepped in a room. Hermione did not know if it was because of how easily his presence commanded attention and respect - and subtlety a bit of fear - or if at its core, was simply because he was a very attractive man and she was not immune to physical beauty. She could openly admit her attraction to Abraxas, or other rather good-looking men like Alfyn Lestrange and even Orion Black. But it was not as easy to acknowledge Riddle's allure, which was beautifully dark - two words Hermione did not usually associate with a male's physical appearance. It was easy, right, to describe Riddle as beautiful; as dark. He was an enchanting mix of both and Hermione hated herself for noticing it. Riddle was not the prim and proper gentlemen that everyone thought him to be; Hermione knew that first-hand, though he had the occasional chivalrous moment that left her breathless. Instead, Riddle had secrets that did not bode well for his perfect reputation: he was a Parselmouth who practiced the Dark Arts conservatively - his insistence that it was purely academic aside. But Hermione's growing hunch told her it was more than a desire for basic knowledge of different types of magic. Tom Riddle was anything but basic, after all.

He was nothing like Abraxas, who Hermione had never needed question morality with. Comparing the two was preposterous and Hermione's eyebrows scrunched at the realization that she was even doing so. Abraxas was the better man; a good, trustworthy man with whom she always enjoyed her time. Hermione smiled back on the half hour she had spent with him on the dance floor, and even further back to the entire day they had spent together. Without even comprehending it, her friendship with Abraxas had changed in the last several months. Tonight, dancing with him, Hermione did not feel like his friend at all. She felt rather more like a cherished date, admired by a handsome and charming man. She had enjoyed being close with him, and she had loved sharing in his soft touches. Had she felt that way before? Had she still felt like _just_ a friend over the summer, when his grins had turned wider only for her? When she had slowly begun to notice he always tried to stand or sit by her when they were with their group of friends? When she caught him staring too long while spending several Saturdays with him in the manor's library or stables? Hermione swallowed down her confusion and giddy nerves of realization. When had she begun sharing secret smiles with him, too, or shifting closer to him on the couch? Had he noticed her staring as well? Abraxas Malfoy had crept up on her, she realized, and the idea both frightened and elated her.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” came a low voice from behind her.

Hermione jumped and whirled around.

“Aren’t you cold?” asked Abraxas, striding towards her. Hermione gulped as her lips parted to respond, but the shock of his sudden appearance in the midst of analyzing their relationship had startled her. Once he emerged from the dark shadows of the manor, she realized he was smiling and holding out his outer robe.

“I just needed some fresh air,” she said, allowing him to drape his black robe over her bare shoulders. Truthfully, he looked even better in just the white dress shirt and tie. As if trying to torture her further, Abraxas ran his hands up and down her arms, his intentions clearly to warm her up. The action only created more goosebumps along her bare arms. 

“Can I ask you something?” she blurted suddenly. Immediate regret ensued, but perhaps it was time to get everything that was on her mind out in the open.

“Anything,” said Abraxas, leaning against the railing sideways on his elbow. Hermione did the same, their arms brushing.

“Does it…does it make you uncomfortable when people - our parents, mostly - insinuate that we should be together?”

Hermione glanced over to see his reaction, but it was too dark to see anything other than his jaw clench and unclench in tandem.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, looking over to her. “But only because we’ve never…you know…”

“Felt that way about each other?” Hermione finished for him.

“Not mutually, or you know…at the same time.”

She blushed, knowing he was referring to her crush many years ago. “I liked you a lot then,” she laughed awkwardly.

“I know,” Abraxas chuckled, lightening the mood. “I was an idiot then. I thought of you like a younger sister -”

“Yeah, you told me that once, and it broke my heart,” snorted Hermione. They both chuckled, glancing to one another and then down to their shoes.

“I don’t…” Abraxas swallowed thickly, his pointed chin twitching towards the gardens as he stared over the railing. “I don’t think of you that way, anymore.”

Hermione could swear she heard her heart beating in her skull. On shaky limbs, she shifted, turned, and leaned her back against the stone railing. While cold in the nighttime climate, she felt suddenly sweaty. It reminded her briefly of her first kiss with a Ravenclaw boy in her sixth year, when he cornered her in a seventh floor corridor to finally steal a taste of her lips after weeks of flirting.

“I mean…you’re my best friend but…” He shook his head, his blonde hair moving with him, and ran a hand down his face. “Does it make _you_ uncomfortable when people insinuate that we should be together?” he copied her, clearly fishing.

Hermione took a deep breath through her nose and chewed on the inside of her cheek. It would be so much easier to not tell Abraxas anything about what she had been thinking, questioning, and wondering about lately. But she told her best friend everything, and always had.

“Lately…I’m not sure anymore,” she admitted, fearful to gauge his reaction.

“Me neither,” he said, standing tall in front of her as her eyes shot to his: wide and dark in the shadows.

“Do you…think it’s just the pressure?” said Hermione, trying to sound hopeful and not desperate.

“Uh…” Abraxas stared at something over her head, looking nervous and contemplative, and perhaps a bit disappointed. “Yeah… Yeah maybe it’s the pressure.”

Hermione said nothing, although his tone was not convincing. She was beginning to think it wasn't public pressure drawing them together at all, but a mutual curiosity to explore something that had kept them close for over a decade. Abraxas seemed to be considering the possibility of a budding romance, sort of like she was.

“Brax…would you agree to an arranged marriage if your parents set it up?”

Abraxas shifted and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Father and I have this deal - I never told you about it. It's embarrassing, I guess - that I have until my twenty-second birthday to find my own respectable pureblood wife. If I do not, they will arrange someone for me, and I get no say.”

“But that’s next summer!” 

“I know,” sighed Abraxas. “I don’t know what - I dunno... I don’t want just anyone and I don't want my father to make that decision for me.”

Hermione understood that, but she also was aware of Mr. Malfoy's high opinion of her. The Granger's were not a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, but Septimus Malfoy and Hector Granger had been fellow Slytherins at school, and the Granger family tree stretched nearly two centuries. For that reason, even the traditional and snobbish Septimus and Catriona Malfoy would accept Hermione as a daughter-in-law. The Malfoy matriarch had told her so since she was a young girl, no doubt fueling Hermione's childish fantasies and feelings for her son. Marriage - a pureblood marriage - was a complicated thing. It was why she and her father had come to an agreement long ago that she would not be forced into an arranged betrothal. But Abraxas was different. He came from a much more prominent family line than Hermione; he was the heir, a son, and had a duty to carry on the family name. It's how the Wizarding world worked, the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But not the Grangers.

She put a comforting hand on his arm. “You don’t deserve just anyone, either.”

“No,” he said. “I want someone smart and independent - that has a mind of her own. Someone beautiful and kind and…I dunno…" He shook his head, scuffing his shoes on the ground. "I just want to find a partner, a best friend. Because if I don’t, I’ll be miserable."

Hermione couldn’t look away from the way _he_ was looking at her.

“That’s what I want, too,” she admitted shakily. "That's what everyone should be allowed to have."

They were standing very close to one another, now. A soft jazz tune could be heard from around the corner where the party still proceeded. The darkness seemed to swallow them, only the stars and moon, and a lit window on the third floor above them, offering any visibility.

“Hermione…” said Abraxas in a slow breath, hope in his guttural tone.

Her reply got stuck in her throat as one of his hands trailed up her arm over his robe that she was still wearing. It stopped on her shoulder, his thumb resting against the bare skin where neck met clavicle. He brushed across the protruding bone, looking as if he was barely breathing himself as his eyes descended to her lips.

When Hermione was little, she always thought she might marry Abraxas. She always thought he would be her first kiss. It was a childish dream fueled by a childish love for her best friend, which was always encouraged by her parent’s insistence that one day she really _would_ marry him.

Their lives had not worked out that way. In her sixth year, she shared a sloppy first kiss with the Ravenclaw boy, whom she continued seeing casually into her seventh year. She had not kissed anyone, in fact, since Hogwarts; never even dated.

But now, as Abraxas stepped into her, his hand cupping the side of her neck, the Hermione from many years ago returned: the young girl that wondered if she would kiss her best friend one day.

It seemed neither of them really knew what they wanted in the moment, or they were at least too nervous to make the next move. The air around them had become thick with a strange combination of apprehension and eagerness, undertones of awkwardness and perhaps a little desire swimming beneath the surface of their gazes. A small part of Hermione did not think she wanted her best friend to kiss her, but she knew she didn't _not_ want him to either. She had a feeling he felt the same way. It felt like an obvious answer, a right and simple choice, while also seeming unnatural and wrong after so many years of companionship.

“Hermione…” Abraxas breathed again, begging her to say something, to do something.

Hermione answered with a shuddering sigh and pushed herself onto her toes, curling into the hand on her neck. Her own hands moved with her; one settled on his arm, the other on his chest. They stood still for a moment, lips nearly brushing with the close proximity away, wide and frightened eyes flickering between parted lips. 

Hermione's curiosity won over. She wanted to know, after all this time, what it would be like; if it _could_ be at all. The night and their conversation and dancing had settled it for her. Perhaps it was the way the moon bounced off his snowy hair, or how incredible he looked in black robes. It certainly had everything to do with the way he had looked at her and held her as they danced, much more intimate than they had ever before. Maybe it was because Abraxas had always made her feel safe and loved and admired. She did not know, but she wanted a taste.

“Abraxas,” came a firm voice from behind them.

They pulled apart as if stung, their hands dropping to their sides, lips pulling away from where they had nearly touched.

“Abraxas,” came the stern, whiny voice again. He turned, swearing under his breath and scowling. It was Victoria. “You promised me another dance!”

And he probably had - gentleman that he was - but Hermione was certain Victoria had come searching for them both specifically. Hermione flushed at being caught, but whether it was from embarrassment or annoyance, she was not sure. She felt both relieved at the interruption and disappointed. While she had wanted the kiss, her abating nerves brought her ease. Perhaps she needed more time to process that they mutually desired to test the boundaries of their friendship before taking such a large - and potentially destructive - step.

Then she began to feel guilty. What kind of friend was she? Victoria had fancied Abraxas for years and was plainly jealous of Hermione. And yet, she, Hermione, was too busy sorting through her own jumbled feelings to be bothered. Abraxas had never shown interest in Victoria despite being aware of her obvious infatuation with him. Her guilt melted back to annoyance. Victoria knew he did not return her feelings but still continued to throw herself at him. Who was that benefitting? And so why should she feel bad for testing the waters with Abraxas?

Victoria whined his name a third time as her gaze hardened on the curly-haired witch at his side, and Hermione had the distinct impression that she had purposefully interrupted them the moment she noticed they were having a significant moment.

“Later,” replied Abraxas as politely as possible. “I just promised Hermione another dance.” He turned back to her with a small, awkward smile on his face, oblivious to the pout and glare Victoria bestowed on the both of them before stomping back around the balcony in the direction she had come.

“Here,” said Hermione, recognizing the moment as utterly ruined and handing his robes back to him. Abraxas slipped back into it, and she immediately missed the way his broad chest looked in the white dress shirt and vest.

“We should -” she began again but was interrupted as Abraxas simultaneously said, "Look, I -"

“I’m sorry - ” They both said at the same time and paused, chuckling and looking away from each other.

“Let’s just head back inside,” said Abraxas, holding out an arm.

Hermione smiled and let him lead her away from their dark corner, begging the warmth in her cheeks to go away before they returned to the candlelit ballroom. A soft tune was playing when they returned, and Abraxas pulled them into the swaying crowd. Hermione glanced around for Riddle, the reason she had fled in the first place, only to find him still absent when she saw no sign of a tall and dark attendee. Abraxas gained her attention once more when he reached for her hand and they joined in a slow rumba.

Hermione wanted to say something. Anything, really. She wanted to be adults and talk about what had just happened, but Abraxas wasn’t just any man, and to him, Hermione wasn’t just any other girl. What had just happened, or almost happened, wouldn’t be easy or normal to talk about at all.

It was Abraxas who actually spoke first.

“Do you want to stay for the night after the ball?”

“What?” said Hermione, confused by his meaning.

“Do you want to stay after the ball?” he repeated. “I was going to ask a bunch of our friends to stay and have a drink - you know, as a sort of after party.”

“Oh? That sounds fun. You can count me in, certainly.”

“I wanted to ask about the New Year, as well. I'm asking our friends to France again,” said Abraxas as the orchestra changed tunes.

Hermione glanced up at him with a frown. “You know I can’t come.”

“Maybe if I talked to your father again?” he suggested. “I felt like I nearly had him convinced last time.”

“You know he'll never allow it.”

Abraxas sighed and shook his head in a disappointed fashion but pulled her closer and stroked his thumb comfortingly across her knuckles. “It’s been thirteen years, ‘Mione -”

“I know.”

“And Grindelwald is long gone -”

“We don’t know that it was him,” said Hermione quietly. “But I know, Brax. I know,” she sighed.

They were silent for several minutes, dancing comfortably in each other's arms. The music slowed to a new tune again as the danced past a laughing Eleanor and Alfyn, both of whom shot Hermione a wink over Abraxas's shoulder. She rolled her eyes, wondering fondly what it would be like to spend the raucous holiday with them. Year after year, she watched her friends prepare to ring in the New Year in Paris, Rome, and even New York City. Year after year, she had to watch them leave her behind.

“Will you talk to him, though?” she asked, looking up at Abraxas with false hope.

The frown he had been wearing changed to a soft smile. “Of course, I will. Don't I every year?”

“Thank you,” she said softly. It embarrassed and saddened her to even ask this of Abraxas every year - as well as Alfyn, Eleanor, and Victoria. But every year, she hoped her father would be more understanding as she grew older. Sensing her mood dwindling, Abraxas pulled her closer and began drawing circles on her lower back.

“Have I mentioned you look beautiful tonight?” he smartly complimented, earning him a coy smile from Hermione. “Seriously, this color looks stunning on you.”

That induced a laugh as she nudged him playfully before relaxing again in his arms.

“May I cut in?”

Hermione would have been irritated to the point of confrontation if Victoria had tried to steal her date away again, but this time the voice posing the question was low and demanding; a familiar voice that favored commanding statements rather than questions and requests.

Tom Riddle was standing next to them, looking immaculately clean-cut in all-black attire, extremely handsome, and politely impatient.

“Tom,” said Abraxas in surprise. The men both inclined their heads in greeting. “Y-Yes of course,” he stuttered, letting Hermione go. “I hope you’re enjoying your night?”

“Very much,” said Riddle simply, looking straight past Abraxas to Hermione.

“Wonderful,” coughed Abraxas. “I’ll just go find Alfyn,” he said in dismissal and disappeared.

Hermione stood still, staring at Riddle indifferently while feeling a little miffed about Abraxas's quick departure. Must Riddle be so subtly threatening to everyone?

“Mr. Riddle,” she said in a forced, nonchalant tone that did not represent her racing heart, “I have not seen you around tonight.”

He did not humor her with even a smirk, but stepped closer and held out a hand.

“I only present myself to those I wish to,” he said simply.

Hermione resisted the urge to snort at his arrogant response and glanced down to the hand that meant to take her for a turn around the dance floor. She couldn’t deny the rush of anxiety at the idea of letting him hold her close. Their acquaintance did not facilitate friendly waltzing or casual touching. Their recent partnership felt almost professional to an extent, and therefore, Hermione could not quite sort through the nerves that surfaced at the prospect of dancing with her handsome and dark magic tutor. The realization that he was, in fact, sort of like a tutor at all made her want to laugh. The very reason of their lessons became suddenly apparent, and taking his proffered hand created even further apprehension in her muddled brain. Riddle sensed this and reassured her slightly.

“My magic is safely contained and locked away, if that’s what you’re so wary of,” he said. “Therefore, you should not fret over any possible outbursts of your own.”

Hermione could not help but smile, half in relief and the other from the proper way in which he always spoke. She took his hand and settled her own on his right shoulder.

“May I say, Miss Granger, that you look utterly _exquisite_ tonight,” said Riddle, inching his hand along her waist. Hermione’s breath stalled from the compliment. Abraxas’s accolades had left her smiling with a racing heart, but Riddle’s whispered words, said without even a hint of a smile, left her stomach fluttering with an unresolved feeling.

“You clean up well yourself,” she responded basically, feeling flustered and at a loss for a more sophisticated, witty response.

Riddle chuckled at her awkward reply and settled his hand along her lower back, lower than Abraxas had done. He rolled his shoulders as if releasing a muscle ache, causing her hand to slip towards the exposed skin above the collar of his black dress shirt. Her thumb met the warm skin of his neck. She did not move it.

Riddle turned out to be a very good dancer, which surprised Hermione since she doubted Muggle orphanages taught such classes.

“I hope I find you in good health tonight, Miss Granger,” he said conversationally after a minute of tense silence.

“You do,” she said, giggling slightly. “I haven’t become a dark sorceress since you last saw me, anyways.”

“I would hope not,” he said, lips twitching slightly.

“Although perhaps you might find me that way next time you ditch me for poker,” she replied comically, nerves abating enough for a normal pulse rate and conversation.

“Poker?” echoed Riddle, looking down at her with a raised brow.

“Yes, poker. Although I already suspected Abraxas of lying when he let slip of your whereabouts Monday night.”

“Oh… _poker_.” He smirked humorously

Hermione scoffed. “And what is that code for, Mr. Riddle?”

“Abraxas is a good friend,” he said with a hint of something else she couldn’t place, “but I’m afraid it’s nothing that interesting. I only had some business with him and Alfyn, specifically.”

“Like what?”

“You ask many questions.”

“I know… What kind of business? Trying to swindle Brax and Alfyn out of their family heirlooms as well?” she softened the jibe with a grin, of which Riddle actually returned.

He bowed his head in laughter, which only made Hermione’s smile grow.

“You certainly love to use that particular accusation, don’t you?”

“Oh, you remember?” she chided.

“How could I forget that day, Miss Granger? The day you outsmarted me…”

“I see you’re still holding a grudge then.”

“Only just.”

“Well, then I’m pleased to hear it is _almost_ water under the bridge,” said Hermione. “I do not want any hostility between us. You’re practically my teacher now, after all.”

Riddle seemed to consider his new title for a moment. “I am certain that there will always be hostility between us until we trust one another."

Until then, Hermione had been very content with their banter. She wondered if they had ever conversed in the way they just did, only now realizing that it perhaps even had underlying tones of flirtation on his end. But now, Riddle was suddenly back to his serious, brooding self.

“I have given you no reason not to trust me; unlike you - no offense given,” said Hermione.

“None taken. But I do not trust easily, Miss Granger,” Riddle replied with a slightly condescending smile.

“Neither do I. And may I say that you are not a very easy person to trust?”

Riddle chuckled softly. “You may, although I must defend myself slightly in reminding you that I have taken several measures as of late to earn such a gift from you.”

“I won’t deny that,” said Hermione, gripping his shoulder harder when he turned them expertly towards an emptier corner of the dancing crowd. “Which reminds me, I should thank you for the gift you left at work for me. I’m sorry I missed you. I felt it was finally time to tell my friends about the curse and I used my lunch break to do so.”

“Yes,” hummed Riddle, shifting his hand so slowly on the small of her back that she almost missed it. Almost. “I figured it was time I give back what you have always claimed is rightfully yours.”

Hermione laughed icredulously. “Well, I did find the book first; and I believe you know that, Mr. Riddle.”

“I’ll admit I bought it out of spite,”said Riddle with a slight nod and reminiscent smirk. “That is what you deserve for ditching me in _Secondhand Tomes_ that day.”

“Ditched you?” Hermione cried, unbelieving. His antagonizing look made her laugh louder than before. “You cornered me, threatened me, and then nearly forced your way into my mind,” she whispered.

“Yes…” Riddle sighed, a distant look in his eye. “I was quite theatrical, wasn’t I?”

“That’s not the word I would use,” murmured Hermione in the direction of his shoulder, rolling her eyes playfully away from him. A good distance away, she spotted Abraxas, who had been roped in by Victoria once more. He was guiding her in another dance, his hand high on her back. Hermione only suppressed a scowl for the sake of Riddle's observant curiosity.

“What word would you use then?”

“A proper lady would never dare to speak her mind in such a way."

Riddle threw his head back and laughed. Really laughed. In turn, Hermione gawked at him.

“I never took you for a proper lady, Miss Granger. No offense.”

Hermione scoffed, but it was caught in her throat as he pulled her closer, their chests brushing. “None taken.”

They fell into silence as the music changed into a popular tune that had an accompanying dance. Instead of waiting it out, Riddle began guiding them expertly in the difficult steps Hermione had barely grasped when Victoria tried teaching her and Eleanor over the summer. It was a jazzy, sultry tune that pulled partners close, demanding they connect body and mind. Hermione could not help but sweep the room for Abraxas again, secretly hoping he had ditched Victoria for this particular dance, but her distraction was washed away when Riddle, following other leading men, dipped her suddenly. Hermione gasped, her hand sliding around the back of his neck to catch herself - though he seemed more than capable. His hair tickled her fingers and the arrogant smirk he bestowed on her sent shivers down her spine. With his hand tightening around the dip in her waist, fingers squeezing, Riddle drew her to her feet.

Hermione cleared her throat quietly, looking away from him the moment they resumed the intricate footwork. “I am appreciative of the book, though,” she continued as if nothing at all had occured. “I’ve already read it.”

A tight-lipped smile creeped back up Riddle’s lips. “I have no doubt. And how did you find it?”

Hermione recalled the several nights in a row she had spent reading _Ancient Runes: The Essence of Bonding Magic_ , grateful to finally share in its intellect. “Just - mesmerizing, really. I took your homework advice. I think I’ve actually made some strides with wandless magic this week. The chapters on that helped. Essence bonding is so intriguing that I almost feel lucky to be in the situation that I am.” Riddle raised a questioning eyebrow. “Not that I enjoy being slowly corrupted and tempted by the Dark Arts,” she added quickly, “but _I_ am the subject I'm studying about. For someone like me, that loves books and research and knowledge, that is a pretty fantastic thing.”

“I hope, for your sake, we can find a solution to all of this.”

“As do I. I know I can do this,” said Hermione firmly. “I’m a strong witch; I know my abilities. I just need to get control of my magic. I’m not afraid,” she added, only recognizing the latter statement as a partial lie. “I can overcome a small curse.”

Riddle looked down at her with something akin to both doubt and pride. It made her feel similar to how she did back at Hogwarts, when Professor Dumbledore would hand back a Transfiguration exam with top marks and praising comments. The look of doubt did not offend her. She knew as well as he that her necklace was by no means harboring a ‘small’ curse.

“For secretly possesing such magic,” said Riddle, glancing down to the aforementioned emerald pendant, “it puts on quite the exquisite display.” The use of that word again had Hermione’s head feeling light as he added, “Dare I say it suits you?”

His eyes lingered on her neck and chest longer than was necessary before returning to her narrowed eyes.

“My friends said the same thing."

“Enough of this depressing topic,” said Riddle as the music changed to something faster. “We can return to the pros and cons of the Dark Arts and lovely necklaces on Monday at our next lesson.”

“Very well. What shall we talk about then? I don’t believe we’ve ever talked about anything other than dark magic, your proclivity for threatening me, or my impending doom.”

“So pessimistic,” he drawled. “But I’m afraid you’re right. Since Abraxas has not returned yet to steal you back, why don’t you tell me about your job?”

“Another civil conversation, then? Dare I say we are becoming friends, Mr. Riddle?”

Riddle smiled good naturedly. “I don’t have friends, Miss Granger; only enemies and confidantes.”

“What could you possibly have enemies for?”

“We all have enemies, Miss Granger, even if we are not aware of them.”

She quirked a brow. He certainly had a way with words, but the majority of what he said was neither normal nor trustworthy.

“My job is quite enjoyable, thank you. It’s not something I wish to do full-time, and I only work three days during the week. But it keeps me occupied, gives me a purpose.”

“Well it looked quite impressive when I stopped in on Monday. Mr. Ross said you’ve done an exceptional job organizing the place.”

Hermione smiled, pleased at the double compliment from both Riddle and her boss.

“Well, it had a lot of potential to begin with,” she said. “And how are things at Borgin and Burkes?”

Riddle had never talked about his job, nor had she ever asked. She suspected he most likely never talked about it by the surprise that flitted across his normally stoic features, but as usual, in an instant it was gone, and he was unreadable once more.

“Not very busy, as of late, I’m afraid, but I just met with a new client yesterday. Mr. Burke is very eager to broker a business deal with her.”

“I’m sure he is,” snorted Hermione under her breath. “Who is it, if I may ask?”

“One Hepzibah Smith,” said Riddle.

“Ah, yes she _would_ be a perfect candidate,” hummed Hermione, knowing very well who Mr. Burke’s new client was.

“You know of her?”

“Oh, yes. Unfortunately she is an old friend of my fathers from school. Rather forward, isn't she? A bit of a recluse in the last few years, though, as she tends to prefer the comfort of her hoarded trinkets above human interaction. But I believe I caught a glimpse of her just earlier.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, even her knowledge of him at Hogwarts, Riddle looked positively alarmed and hastily glanced around them. Hepzibah Smith was as poshly fake, excessive, presumptuous and arrogant than any pureblood woman Hermione had ever known. Moreover, she knew how the older woman could be in a social setting, or a one-on-one setting, especially with men. She had disliked the woman for as long as she could remember but had luckily not been forced to tea with her father and Hepzibah in almost a year.

Hermione could not help but laugh at Riddle’s expense.

“Are you scared, Mr. Riddle?”

He looked back to her and smirked. “Hardly. I just know when to be wary of women who flirt more than they speak intellectually.”

“I’m afraid she is that exact sort,” she giggled, “especially to handsome young men.”

Riddle’s arrogant smirk had not even reached full peak before Hermione felt herself coloring. She had unconsciously admitted her attraction. But hadn't Riddle not done the same earlier when he called her ‘exquisite’? She had never thought of them being mutually attracted to each other; acknowledging it, yes, because any female would be barmy not to, but never admitting it aloud. No, it was just a simple compliment between two acquaintances. Nothing more.

“I recall receiving a compliment from you once many weeks ago and accepting it in the moment as the first and last you were to ever give me,” said Riddle. Hermione remembered the moment he was referring to, at Borgin and Burkes when she reluctantly admitted Riddle was good at his job. “It seems I was wrong.”

Hermione screwed her eyes shut in embarrassment.

“I should watch my tongue then,” she said finally, “lest I fill your head with more vanity.”

Riddle chuckled but denied nothing.

“How is your apprenticeship with my father?” asked Hermione, eager to change the subject before he could reply.

“Very well,” said Riddle simply. Hermione thought that was all the response she would get before he continued, “Your father is a brilliant man.”

“He claims the same of you.”

“I’m learning much more from him than he is from me.”

“I thought you were all-knowing?” chided Hermione.

Riddle chuckled through a quirk of a smile. “Not about everything. However, I still received an ‘Outstanding’ on my Potions N.E.W.T exam.”

“As did I,” challenged Hermione, hearing the very same in his own tone.

“Oh? And how many questions did you miss?”

“Only one,” admitted Hermione reluctantly, “and only because I forgot to give an example of an antidote that requires Golpalott’s Third Law.”

“Ah,” said Riddle in low sigh, “a common mistake, I am told; although not one I made.”

Hermione scowled at him.

“You’ll be glad to know I’ve made quite a few mistakes in your father’s lab, then. It’s a very difficult environment to work in. I have never dealt with such exotic and challenging ingredients.”

“Yes… I heard you’re helping him in his research to cure Dragonpox?”

“That’s right,” said Riddle. “We’re supposed to brew a new trial tomorrow, but by the state of your father right now, I’m not sure he’ll be in the right mind to do any work…”

Hermione followed his eyes that had suddenly become focused on something behind her. She heard a booming laugh as she turned around, and she spotted Hector Granger near the dessert table, guffawing and making an absolute raucous with her and Riddle’s old potions professor, Horace Slughorn.

Hermione groaned. Putting those two men together was never a good idea. They could talk for days and only egged each other on. Pair that with liquor, and you were surely in for entertainment. Hermione noticed both men were practically holding each other up, Hector holding as tightly onto Slughorn’s shoulder as he was his tumbler. Both men were surely in for a rough night…and morning.

“No,” giggled Hermione, turning back to Riddle, “I don’t suppose you’ll be working tomorrow.”

She felt an odd sort of disappointment at the prospect of not meeting Riddle at her house the following day. Their conversation throughout the past half hour had been welcoming after weeks of tension and meticulous conversation. Dancing with him had been surprisingly enjoyable, and Hermione hoped the dynamic continued into their future lessons. She did not want every Monday to have uncomfortable, stilted moments of silence. But she was also certain that her relationship with Tom Riddle was still lightyears away from comfortable.

“That’s a shame,” said Riddle, still watching Hector and Slughorn with a hint of respectful mirth in his dark blue eyes. They shifted to her as he said, “I think I would rather enjoy the opportunity to see you again so soon.”

The outright flirtation took Hermione so suddenly aback that she stepped away from him as the cello drawled the final note of the concerto. Riddle inclined his head towards her and brushed his fingers along her hip as his hands fell to his sides. It was only then, as they separated after sharing several dances, that Hermione realized her hand had remained curled around the nape of his neck the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write to put it simply, but I'm proud of how it turned out. I hope you can all see the differences between how Abraxas and Hermione interact, and how Tom and Hermione interact. As lovely and innocent as Abraxas and Hermione's relationship is, I get so giddy writing Tom and Hermione. There is just such an undertone of danger, desire and suspense, and I really hope that it comes across when you are reading :)
> 
> This chapter also raised some questions. Hermione seems to be getting closer to some of Tom's secrets. Abraxas and Alfyn seem suspiciously quiet and concerned. Also, what the hell were Hermione and Abraxas talking about when discussing Grindelwald and France? And I think we all recall who Hepzibah Smith is... All will be clear soon ;) 
> 
> Please review and let me know your honest thoughts! I appreciate you all so very much! The next chapter may take a couple weeks to get up as this one did. I look forward to posting it, though, as we will follow some of Hogwarts's alumni to Abraxas's afterparty...


	8. After Party Conversations

Septimus and Catriona Malfoy did not wave the last of their guests to the Floo until the clock stuck eleven in the late evening. Only a select few remained, munching on the last of the snacks and sipping the last few vials of champagne before the house-elves took it all away to be disposed of and washed. Hermione was among the small group of older and younger witches and wizards still idling about, but had left the congregation of Hogwarts alumni to say goodnight to her father, who only seemed slightly less intoxicated from when she and Tom Riddle had first spotted him nearly two hours ago.

Riddle and Hermione had not danced again after Alfyn Lestrange cut in to ask for her hand, but they did enjoy a very pleasant conversation together alongside Alfyn and Eleanor over a round of champagne. She had danced more with Abraxas, and once with Jameson Finch-Fletchly and Elphiard Longbottom. The rest of the night had been very enjoyable, and she was astonished by how much Riddle accounted for that. Their interactions had been surprisingly delightful, full of sarcasm, academic debate, and laughter. Even the silences were more comfortable than usual. Their association throughout the night was so vastly different from their usual dynamic that Hermione could not help but wonder, 'Why now?' Something had suddenly changed. Riddle had only slightly relaxed, and in turn, so had she. He complimented her, and in turn, apparently, she admitted he was attractive as well. He danced with no one else, that she was sure of. She even saw him turn down several greedy and giggling women that approached him boldly. His denial of them left her with a very funny feeling that almost felt haughty. He had only danced with _her_ all night.

Hermione would not soon forget the memory of his hand in hers, his fingers drumming with the music at her waist. When he had passed her off to Alfyn, his hand had brushed against the exposed skin of her back. It did not spark any personal feelings towards him, but she did wonder how it was possible that Riddle's touch left her as mentally unsteady and physically affected as Abraxas's did. Her relationship with Abraxas was long-standing, so tightly-knit together that it was no surprise that he was capable of invoking romantic feelings in her after so many years. But she had just truly met Riddle, gotten to know him. He had slithered his way into her life so quickly that Hermione barely registered how often she had begun to see and interact with him. He had made connections in her life: her father, her friends, her own magic. It was only natural that they began to grow more at ease with one another, trust each other - something they mentioned did not come easy to either of them. She thought about the future of their acquaintance, of their private lessons, and assumed the tension between them would only continue to ease. But, vigilant as ever, Hermione knew that sense of wariness and apprehension that she had associated with Riddle since Hogwarts would remain.

Hermione and Riddle's association throughout the night was so vastly different from their usual dynamic that she could not help but wonder, 'Why now?' Something had suddenly changed. He relaxed, and in turn, so did she. He complimented her, and in turn, apparently, she admitted he was handsome. He danced with no one else, that she was sure of. She even saw him turn down several greedy and giggling women that approached him boldly. His denial of them left her with a very funny feeling that almost felt haughty. He had danced only with her all night.

“There you are, m’dear,” boomed Hector Granger when he noticed his daughter approaching.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, father?” chastised Hermione, snatching the tumbler from his hand. She threw it back herself, cringing at the burn of the brandy. She had had several drinks and no snacks since parting with Riddle some time ago, and as a result was beginning to feel light and carefree. If they were to have a party, why not enjoy it?

“Don’t be a downing Debbie,” slurred Hector through a throaty chortle.

Hermione sucked her bottom lips between her teeth to suppress a laugh. “A Debbie Downer is the phrase, I believe, father. Will you let me escort you home, now? Abraxas invited some of us to stay, but you really should get to bed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hector, patting her cheek a little rougher than normal. “I feel perfectly fine… Perfectly...agile. Besides, Septimus has asked a few of us to stay for a nightcap in the parlor.”

“The entire evening has been a nightcap for you,” snorted Hermione, "and I'm sure Mr. Malfoy realizes that and wouldn't be offended." When Hector merely stroked his graying mustache and smirked mischievously, Hermione sighed and pushed her hair off her shoulder. “Fine. But make sure Lolpey gets you to drink a glass of water before bed. I'll know if you haven't.”

“Fine, fine!” Hector scowled. Then his face suddenly lit up. “Ah, Tom! Will you be staying late as well?”

Hermione stiffened shyly when Riddle suddenly appeared next to her. He did not look to her as he replied, “Yes, sir. Abraxas just invited me.”

“Wonderful, wonderful! You will make sure my Hermione gets home safe then?”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest. If anything, that was Abraxas’s job as her date, but she was perfectly capable of getting home on her own.

“Of course, sir.”

“I can always count on you, Tom,” Hector gushed, patting him hard on the shoulder. Hermione suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, but it was cut off when her arm brushed against Riddle’s, who had been forcefully shifted from the drunken weight of her father's clap. “I’m afraid I need to push back our appointment tomorrow," continued Hector. "Say until one? I think we’ll both need the extra sleep.”

“I agree, sir,” said Riddle with the same warm smile Hermione was beginning to realize he always preserved for those he wished to charm.

“That might put us finishing up later than usual, but you’re welcome to join us for dinner, of course.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Riddle kindly.

“Well, it looks like the men are heading into the parlor. Goodnight, darling,” said Hector, pinching her cheek. She scowled in embarrassment as the two men shook hands. Just as Hector was turning to leave, though, he was stopped by a voice as loud and boisterous as his own.

“Tom, m’boy! And Miss Granger!”

It was, unmistakably, Horace Slughorn.

“Hector, you didn’t tell me my two favorite students were friends!” Slughorn bellowed as he waddled up to them. His dress robes looked full to bursting above his pudgy belly, and his sandy blonde mustache quivered with his wide grin. 

“Hello, professor,” said Hermione politely.

“A pleasure to see you again, Professor Slughorn,” said Riddle with a deep incline of his head.

“My, my, what a treat!” cried Slughorn, shaking hands with Riddle. “My two best students here, and together!” he slurred, smiling so big that it looked painful. “What a match it is!”

Hermione and Riddle glanced to each other but made no move to correct his assumption that they had attended the ball as a couple.

“I must say, I miss you both in my classes. Not as bright of minds as yours have come through my classroom yet, and probably never will again!”

“You’re too polite, sir,” said Riddle, speaking for the both of them. Hermione was grateful for it. She felt as if she was standing in a very warm and awkward spotlight. The empty ballroom and tall ceiling allowed Slughorn’s loud compliments to carry across the entire room. She could feel her friend’s eyes on the back of her head and swore she could hear Abraxas laughing.

“Hector tells me he’s taken you on as his apprentice, Tom! No surprise there, of course. I’ve no doubt Miss Granger is a big help down in the lab!”

Hermione smiled kindly and watched her father drown her in a very happy and proud grin.

“I don’t frequent the lab very often, sir,” she said honestly.

“Well, what a shame,” cried Slughorn, slapping a hand down on Hector’s shoulder. “No doubt she would be a great asset, my friend.”

“She is when she joins me,” said Hector, “but I’m afraid she’s more preoccupied with her books.”

Hermione saw Riddle smirk out of the corner of her eye, humored at her expense. It made her own lips twitch and reminded her of their amusing banter on the dance floor.

“Of course, of course! No surprise there,” chortled Slughorn. “Tom, perhaps you would be willing to do some demonstrations for my NEWT students sometime, then. You would be welcome to join too, of course, Miss Granger. I would love for the children to see the importance of potions and what sorts of careers and uses it can contribute to in the future.”

“I would be delighted, sir,” said Riddle, bowing his head in thanks. He sounded genuinely surprised and intrigued by the offer.

“Thank you, sir,” added Hermione. “Although I think Mr. Riddle would be a much better choice than I.”

“Nonsense,” smiled Slughorn, swaying slightly. Luckily his hand was still wrapped around Hector’s shoulder, steadying him slightly. “To see my two prized students brew together would be a delight, I tell you. If only you had been in the same year… I’m sure you would have found some competition in one another!”

“I’m afraid we still do sometimes,” said Hermione cheekily, glancing up at Riddle. His smirk grew broader.

“’Mione! Tom! Shall we?” Abraxas was calling them, motioning towards the exit.

“I believe that’s our cue,” said Riddle, reaching to shake Slughorn’s chubby hand. “It was a pleasure to speak to both of you tonight,” he continued politely, smiling at Hector. “Feel free to owl me, Professor. A visit to Hogwarts would be delightful and I would be happy to join you in the classroom one day, but only if Miss Granger accompanies me.”

“Then you really must, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn hopefully. “Both of you must!”

“Of course, sir,” she agreed, trying not to focus on Riddle’s insinuation that he would not visit Hogwarts without her.

“Then expect my owl,” said Slughorn, raising his glass to both of them. “I believe we should go take Septimus up on that aged mead, Hector.”

“Ooh…yes,” agreed Hector, his voice quivering in excitement.

The two men bid their goodnights and goodbyes before leaving Hermione and Riddle alone.

“Shall we?” asked Riddle quickly, leaving no opportunity for awkward silence.

Hermione nodded and led the way towards their large group of friends.

“I thought we could go into the parlor for more drinks,” said Abraxas upon noticing them.

“I’m afraid your father has already claimed it,” said Hermione. “He’s having his own party, it seems.” She pointed over his shoulder to Septimus Malfoy, who was leading her father and Horace Slughorn, among a few other men, from the ballroom.

“Damn,” sighed Abraxas.

“Why don’t we just go to your room?” suggested Victoria, stepping up beside Abraxas. “Merlin knows it's probably big enough.”

“I suppose…” trailed Abraxas, contemplative.

“Oh, _come on_ , Abraxas, it shall be fun,” cried a whiny voice. It was Walburga Black. Hermione fought the scowl that was itching at her cheeks, but Eleanor Greengrass did not bother hiding hers. Why had Abraxas invited her and her cronies? Then, Hermione saw Orion Black brooding in the corner with his date and realized that Walburga had probably invited herself in order to keep her betrothed in her line of sight.

“Very well,” sighed Abraxas. “We can continue the night up in my quarters, gentlemen,” he announced to the group.

The chatter continued when Abraxas made no move to leave yet. Instead, he called his house-elf and asked for his room to be ready with drinks, snacks, and extra chairs when they arrived upstairs.

Hermione felt as if she was a mouse in a snake pit. Besides Eleanor Greengrass, Sophia Parkinson, Olive Hornby, and Orion’s date Lillian Abbott, everyone was a Slytherin. There was a girl each on the arm of Aveus Nott and Lionel Mulciber, but she did not recognize them well enough to know what House they were once in, or perhaps were in still if they were young enough. Hermione knew these were the very men that had followed Riddle around at Hogwarts, and yet he made no indication that they were his best mates. He stood still next to her, silent and unsmiling at all of them.

Abraxas offered Hermione his arm and led the large group from the ballroom. Alfyn and Eleanor sidled up next to them as they reached the stairs.

“How was the rest of your night?” Hermione asked them both.

“Quite enjoyable,” said Alfyn, “although Eleanor is a dreadful dancer.”

“Oh, shut up, will you? You stepped on my toes twice!” she replied haughtily.

“Only because you’re a dreadful dancer,” mumbled Alfyn.

“Did Frederick already leave?” asked Hermione, referring to Eleanor’s older brother.

“Oh, yes. He came with Sophia Parkinson, you know. Poor choice, but she cornered him about it at work…left him with no room to protest, really. She works the front desk of the Liaison Office in International Magical Cooperation.”

Hermione felt a pang of jealousy that Sophia Parkinson, of all people, had a Ministry job and she did not. But Hermione had not applied for a receptionist position, and never had any plans to. She still daydreamed daily for a research position, perhaps as an Unspeakable, to fulfill her career desires.

“He ditched her about an hour ago,” snickered Alfyn. “I saw him sneak away after he danced with you, Eleanor.”

Eleanor laughed. “No matter. Parkinson seems occupied now anyways,” she said, nudging her chin over her shoulder.

Hermione turned to look down at the group ascending the grand stone staircase behind them. Sophia Parkinson was hanging onto Tom Riddle’s arm, staring adoringly up at him and chatting away. Hermione quickly faced front again, rolling her eyes.

“Probably asked Frederick because Riddle wouldn’t ask her,” snorted Eleanor.

Apparently, the female population did indeed still fawn over Tom Riddle, even if the drama of romance at Hogwarts was in the past. Hermione wondered if Riddle knew how horrible Sophia could be.

“How does she know him anyway?” asked Eleanor.

“She hangs around,” said Alfyn simply. “Seems like she shows up anywhere Walburga is, who’s wherever Orion is.”

“And wherever Orion is, Riddle is,” guessed Eleanor - correctly it seemed, indicating by the facial expression Alfyn shot her. “What a greedy bunch of girls,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Maybe you should all stop being friends with Orion so they will leave you alone.”

“Not likely,” snorted Alfyn. “They’re all obsessed with Tom. And besides, Orion's a good bloke.”

"Yes," snorted Hermione, "he seems like the life of the party." Alfyn barked a laugh. 

Hermione peaked back over her shoulder. Riddle was smiling at Sophia, if rather strained, and returning the conversation. At that very moment, he glanced up and met her gaze. Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat and she whipped her head back around as if shocked. They reached the top of the stairs and turned towards the east wing where Abraxas’s vast quarters were located.

“What’s the matter with you, Abraxas?” asked Eleanor. “You’re very quiet.”

Abraxas's head whipped towards them, dragging his fingers through his gelled hair and letting his fringe hang over his eyes. He glanced at Hermione, bright blue eyes full of unspoken memories in the candle light of the wall sconces. Hermione was thankful for the darker corridor, hoping it would hide her blush from Eleanor's wandering eyes. She knew too well the likely reasoning for Abraxas’s silence and the fierce look in his magnificent eyes, but she was trying to push their almost-kiss out of her mind for the rest of the night. If she thought about it now, she would be unable to act normal around him. She would think about it tomorrow.

“Wha- Oh, nothing," he said, smiling slightly, “I’m fine.”

Eleanor shot Hermione a suspicious look the moment Abraxas faced front again. She returned it with a promising look of her own that said she would explain later.

Portraits, all Malfoy ancestors dating back centuries, greeted them along the way down the dimly lit hall. Abraxas largely ignored them, but a few others in the back of the pack greeted them back politely. Hermione herself smiled and waved at an elderly woman that was beaming in her direction. It was Abraxas’s late grandmother, who Hermione had been very fond of in her childhood. The wise and wrinkled portrait of Celestina Malfoy watched her grandson and Hermione pass by arm-in-arm with a pleased smile on her lips.

“You are ok, aren’t you? You do look a bit tense,” probed Hermione, looking up to Abraxas.

“Don’t fret. I’m perfectly alright,” he assured her. “Just rethinking inviting such a large group to stay.”

“Well, I think there are a few…uninvited guests - if I’m assuming correctly, anyway. You’re the host, though, which means you can kick us out at any time. We really shouldn’t stay past one, anyway.”

“No, it’s no problem,” said Abraxas, waving the situation off.

The doors to his quarters were open when they arrived. A couple house-elves were still bustling around. Abraxas thanked them sincerely for setting up on such short notice, which earned him a pleased smile from Hermione. He shook his head knowingly at her (she had always demanded the fair treatment of house-elves in service) and led Hermione into the sitting room. They found a seat on the couch nearest the fire, which was warm and inviting. 

Abraxas’s room was very grand. His parents saved no expense on him and had moved him into larger quarters the moment he had turned seventeen. The east wing was generally for family guests, with large quarters reserved for grandparents and married heirs to reside in. However, Abraxas had no living grandparents anymore, and was the only heir, so his parents had offered him the east wing in advance. This meant he had four separate rooms for all of his needs.

The one the group entered into was a very large sitting room with dark wood floors and walls, green rugs and tapestries, and brown leather furniture. It made for a dark and cozy space but looked very nice in the sunlight. The doors to his bedroom, study and bathroom on either side of the room had been closed, but the room was so large that it didn’t feel crowded even as Lionel Mulciber, who was at the rear of the group with his date, entered and shut the door.

“Drinks are on the coffee table,” announced Abraxas, settling into the cushions at Hermione’s side. Their knees brushed as he stretched his legs out and Abraxas jumped, crossing his legs immediately. Hermione colored and had to stifle a giggle. She didn’t want to ponder what was happening, or trying to happen, between her and Abraxas. All she knew, was that six months ago Abraxas did not shy away from stretching out on the couch and throwing his long legs over her lap. That had changed now.

The majority of the group sidled over to where Hermione and Abraxas sat, Eleanor and Alfyn coming to join Hermione and Abraxas on the couch. Riddle stalked over with his hands folded behind his back, Sophia Parkinson still tittering behind him. He met Hermione’s eye as he sat down on the opposite couch, Sophia eagerly plopping down beside him.

Hermione glanced over to Eleanor, who looked about as uncomfortable as she was beginning to feel. There were too many people in Abraxas’s room that Hermione had never been fond of, Walburga and her friends especially, but the plethora of extra testosterone was not extremely welcome either. Hermione only knew what she remembered of them from Hogwarts since Abraxas or Alfyn rarely spoke of their solely male, Slytherin friend group. She only knew that the boys had followed Tom Riddle around as if school had been a game of ‘follow the leader’. She had seen them all interact at Hogwarts, watching avidly as Riddle wrapped Slughorn around his clever finger in Slug Club and laughing when he hexed his opponent in Dueling Club. She had noticed immediately upon invitation to join the Slug Club in her fourth year. Those two terms in her fourth year still haunted her. The fear she had felt for her Muggleborn classmates during the mysterious Chamber of Secrets attacks had been crippling, and the anger and sadness she harbored for poor Myrtle Warren and her family often revisited her even now. She had not known Myrtle well, but it was difficult to lose a classmate. Hermione couldn’t help the glare she bestowed on Olive Hornby across the room, who had mercilessly bullied Myrtle and undoubtedly still did not regret her behavior.

For nearly half an hour, Hermione and Eleanor sat quietly, conversing with one another and sipping on glasses of wine. Mostly, they were listening to the larger conversations around them. Hermione was especially interested in the way every man tried to involve Riddle in their various topics of discussion. Emaex Avery, in particular, was putting on a marvelous show by asking about Riddle’s job and daily routine and praising his successful sales. Even Abraxas surprised Hermione by praising (more than once) Riddle’s apprenticeship with her father. It seemed that everyone in the room, except for Hermione, was more interested in conversing solely with Riddle instead of anyone else. Still, despite his polite replies to everyone that approached him, Hermione could sense his annoyance. She supposed she was the only one that could, not because his tone gave anything away, but because his magic did. Her own, naturally, reacted in response as midnight came and went, though Hermione thought she was doing a rather successful job of controlling it.

“’Mione?” someone said suddenly, nudging her in her side. It was Eleanor. “Aveus asked you a question.”

“What?” Hermione perked up and turned towards the man in question. Aveus Nott was standing by the arm of the couch Riddle was sitting on, looking at her expectantly. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Only that I thought I saw you in Diagon Alley this week, at that new bookstore,” said Nott, smiling silkily.

“Oh, yes. I work there now, you see.”

“How… _charming_ ,” mumbled Lucretia Black, who was leaning against the fireplace mantel at Nott’s side.

“Working in a bookstore…with your talents?” said Nott somewhat condescendingly.

Hermione bristled and felt her magic stirring under the surface. It was unusual that it reacted to _her_ own emotions, but she paid no mind to the new revelation as she thought of a quick response.

“My talents? You aren’t referring to the duel I won between us in Defense Against the Dark Arts, are you Nott? If it's my average ability with defensive and offensive magic you speak of, I'm afraid I would make a rather poor Auror. Anyone could have used the same hexes I did. That being said, I rather prefer my measly _bookstore_ job.”

Nott’s smile had turned into a pinched sort of grimace and he seemed to be assessing Riddle out of the corner of his eye. Hermione had hoped that referring to the duel he had lost to her in their sixth year would strike a chord with his ego, for Aveus Nott had perhaps an even bigger one than Riddle. She knew this firsthand, as they had been in the same year at Hogwarts and had many classes together.

Soft laughter had broken out across the room at her dig, Abraxas’s being the loudest among them. Riddle was smirking at her.

“I was not referring to that,” ground out Nott, “but thank you for reminding me of it. I’m sure your Stinging Jinx is still as nasty as ever.”

“Oh, don’t pout, Aveus,” chimed Walburga from an armchair. “You should be proud to have lost to the only Gryffindor that could do anything more than a Levitation charm.”

Hermione had a very hard time forcing herself not to snap at the infuriating witch, or anyone else for that matter, as a fresh round of laughter ensued. Abraxas reached over and rubbed her arm, silently comforting her and pleading not to make trouble. She sighed and relaxed, physically at least, for her magic continued to stir.

“I think you would make an excellent Auror, Miss Granger.”

Riddle had spoken, and the laughter ceased at once.

“Do you think so? I’m afraid I am far too soft,” replied Hermione, glancing in his direction. Sophia Parkinson was frowning up at Riddle in light of his paying Hermione a compliment instead of her.

“On the contrary,” said Riddle, his voice cutting like a knife through the suddenly attentive room, “I think you’re rather…spirited. Rather authoritative.”

“Authoritative?” echoed Hermione. “I think that rather describes you better, Mr. Riddle. Wouldn’t your friends agree?”

Hermione glanced around the room innocently. Everyone was staring at her, bewildered and perhaps slightly nervous. Emaex Avery was flicking his eyes between her and Riddle openly, who had turned a stiff smile on Hermione. Walburga Black’s sharp features had pinched in a small sneer. Hermione raised a groomed brow at them all. She _had_ said it rather harmlessly, but they were all acting as if her statement had been a hidden threat or accusation. Victoria and Eleanor were the only ones that looked unfazed, as well as Orion Black’s quiet date, Lillian Abbott. But even Abraxas and Alfyn were shooting her cautious looks. Lionel Mulciber’s date, who Hermione still did not know, was glaring at her above crossed arms. Now that Hermione got a better look at the witch, she looked much younger than the rest of them. Hermione wondered if she had somehow managed to leave Hogwarts for the holiday weekend. She looked no younger than seventeen, but no older than eighteen, either.

“What makes you say that, Miss Granger?” said Riddle coolly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Only that I believe you have more qualities of a leader than I do,” said Hermione lightly, twisting her features into one of innocence. “Although, I do appreciate the compliment coming from you.”

“Oh, please,” scoffed Walburga. She was standing behind Riddle’s couch, looking imposing next to her cousin Orion and a nervous-looking Lillian Abbott. “Don’t bother to compliment her, Tom,” she cooed. “We all know Granger is softer than a Pygmy Puff. If shacking up with Abraxas is any indication - and we all know he is the weakest link - then no one will be surprised to hear that she is friendly with my blood traitor cousin Cedrella.”

Hermione glanced to Abraxas as every member of the Black family present pinched their faces in disgust. Abraxas looked like he wanted to protest against the accusation of their relationship, but he was too busy returning Walburga’s scowl. What had she meant by Abraxas being the ‘weakest link’? Weakest link to what?

“The one marrying into the Weasley family?” sneered Victor Rosier.

“The very same,” said Walburga, turning an oily smile on Hermione. Orion was staring at her, and poor Lillian Abbott at his side looked ready to disapparate. Riddle remained cool and collected, watching her with a void expression.

“I have no shame in who I am acquainted with,” said Hermione in an air of nonchalance.

“Which is what will always separate the Grangers from the rest of us,” murmured Sophia Parkinson.

“What makes you think I would prefer to be anything like you, Sophia?” asked Hermione, crossing her arms.

“Why wouldn’t you?” goaded Walburga. Eleanor practically growled under her breath next to Hermione. “Sophia comes from a better family, a wealthier one. She is prettier, has more suitors -”

Walburga smirked nastily, but Hermione was still unimpressed. Her magic felt completely out of control, however. As unbothered as she was trying to feel, her magic felt defensive, ready to strike. She looked to Riddle to see if he noticed. Perhaps he had, because his blank stare seemed more calculating from moments ago.

“I don’t need my parents to find me a suitor - unlike some, thank you, Walburga,” retorted Hermione. “I won’t deny either that dear Sophia comes from a wealthier family. I find there are rather more important things in life than riches." She paused before raising a brow at Walburga. "Like character and intelligence.”

Hermione glanced over to Sophia Parkinson as she said it. She was staring at Hermione with a mix of loathing and bewilderment. Next to her, Riddle had a small smile growing on his face. Hermione found comfort in it despite her embarrassment. She hated discussing pure-blood ideology around Sacred Twenty-Eight idealists like the Blacks. Wealth was a touchy subject among anyone, but was especially a topic Hermione did not care to breach. The Granger family had always been very modest, but Hermione still suspected she lived the life Tom Riddle, among many others, wished to have grown up in. Not only was Walburga insulting Hermione, she was insulting Riddle, and probably a few other men in the room like Rosier and Avery that didn’t share the same wealth as the Black's, Malfoy's, Lestrange's, Nott's, and Greengrass's.

Luckily, the ridiculous conversation ended with Riddle. “That’s enough,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the tension. “We must not reprimand Miss Granger for her family status nor who she is friends with. Perhaps there is a reason she is forced to associate with your cousin, Walburga. She does not forget her name or pure heritage as Cedrella and Septimus Weasley have, and that is what matters. Do not mistake kindness for disloyalty… And I need not remind you how much the Grangers have done for me in the last month.”

“Of course, Tom,” said Walburga, back off and sounding ashamed.

Hermione stored away that particular interaction to ponder for later. Walburga knew about Riddle’s apprenticeship with her father? Were they friends? Abraxas or Alfyn had never mentioned that Walburga hung around the group of Slytherin men, and yet Walburga - and even Sophia Parkinson - seemed at ease with all of them. And how curious, too, that someone as arrogant and stubborn as Walburga Black took orders from Riddle so easily and apologetically.

Eleanor and Hermione exchanged a glance at the growing apparentness that the Slytherins in this room had a very strange dynamic indeed. Even Victoria was looking at them across the room with equal confusion and discomfort.

What intrigued Hermione most was Riddle’s defense of her. She appreciated his move to shut Walburga up, but the way he spoke of pure-blood heritage made him sound like one himself, and Hermione knew him to be a half-blood. He had admitted to Hermione and Hector that his father was a Muggle and his mother’s pure bloodline had fallen from grace long ago. Riddle had admitted his bitterness to the situation, that it often affected his magic. What had his Muggle father done for Riddle to reflect the same ideals about blood purity (and those who betrayed their heritage, like Cedrella) that radical pure-bloods did? Had he lied about not knowing his pure-blood lineage? While his mother had clearly betrayed the purity of the family lineage, perhaps his other relatives had taught him their opinions on those with impure blood.

Aveus Nott had now steered the conversation in a very different direction from which he started it. Just as Riddle had asked, the attention had diverted away from Hermione as if nothing had ever happened.

“Am I the only one that finds this atmosphere very uncomfortable?” mumbled Eleanor, leaning into Hermione’s shoulder.

“No,” she whispered back. “I feel as if we’ve intruded on a party we’re not really welcome to - despite Brax being the host.”

Eleanor nodded in response, shooting a look in Riddle's direction before turning to Alfyn, who had asked her what she thought about England hosting the next Quidditch World Cup. Hermione rolled her eyes. She certainly had no interest in Quidditch. Eleanor, on the other hand, had played against Alfyn and the rest of the Slytherin team at Hogwarts as the Ravenclaw Seeker.

Soon, the majority of the room erupted in Quidditch banter. Hermione leaned forward to refill her wine glass, completely uninterested. Abraxas was talking over her, and she felt as if she was only in the way of his desired conversation. So, Hermione stood and tapped Abraxas’s shoulder, nudging her head to the side so he knew he could scoot over. It seemed Hermione wasn’t the only one uninterested in Quidditch. Riddle stood along with her, leaving Sophia to her loud and obnoxious chatting about who would hold the Yule Ball this year. Victoria had joined in, hinting that her father mentioned wanting to host. Hermione sighed. It always seemed to be the same, repetitive topics among pure-blood women.

“Enjoying your evening?” asked Riddle as he stepped over to her.

“I was,” smiled Hermione stiffly. “Now, I find myself rather aggravated and annoyed.”

“I could tell,” he hummed, folding his hands behind his back. They both shifted to the edge of the fireplace, turning away from the chatter on the couches.

“Was I that obvious?”

“Not at all… Only to me.”

“So, you could feel it then?” said Hermione, referring to the peculiar behavior of her magic. “May I have a word with you…privately?”

Riddle’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

“Would you like a glass of wine first?”

“Red, please,” he answered, inclining his head in thanks.

Hermione poured Riddle his own glass of red and handed it to him. He smiled in thanks and held out an open hand, motioning towards a dark and empty corner on the other side of the room. They moved towards it, the eyes of their friends following them.

Hermione sighed once they dissolved into the shadows, catching Abraxas’s eye across the room. The conversation by the fire had died down, probably in the hope of hearing what the peculiar pair were sneaking away to talk about. Leaning against the wall with her shoulder, Hermione watched as Riddle did the same. He looked frighteningly handsome in the dark, half his face covered in shadows, accentuating his upturned lips and straight jaw, darkening his already deep blue eyes. They looked nearly black, now, rather than the glow they had reflected by the fire. Hermione drank deeply from her glass, tearing her eyes away from him.

“Did you have something to ask me?” asked Riddle, swirling the liquid in his glass.

“Well, I suppose it’s more like I wanted to inform you… You are practically my teacher after all, aren’t you?” she smiled.

Riddle returned it, his eyes squinting at the corners. “Of sorts… Although I’d rather you not call me ‘Professor Riddle’.”

Hermione laughed. “Perhaps ‘sir’ then?”

She had meant it as a joke, but there was another meaning behind it that she realized too late. Coloring immediately, she grimaced at her poor joke and looked away from him, this time catching Sophia Parkinson’s glare across the room.

Riddle chuckled at her expense, a deep sound that rumbled through her and made her flush deepen. It was a nice sound, his laugh; a darkly mesmerizing sound that could make anyone feel inexplicable emotions. While a nice change from his usual demeanor, his laugh could also make one feel patronized and small, as if they were being mocked as the brunt of a private joke. Riddle had a tendency to carry himself with that demeanor, anyways.

“If you wish to,” he finally said, his tone full of humor. Then his eyes turned void of glee once more and his lips moved into a sly smirk instead of a charming grin. “You won’t hear any objections from me.”

Hermione wished the room would swallow her whole. Furthermore, her heart was racing with the knowledge that he was _suggestively_ flirting with her. He had flirted with her once more that night. The sudden shift in his behavior towards her had Hermione bewildered.

“Don’t make me feel more a fool than I already do, Mr. Riddle,” she said quickly, hiding in her glass.

“Actually, I think it’s rather time you started calling me ‘Tom’.”

“Do you prefer that over ‘sir’?” joked Hermione, trying to make light of the situation by having playful go at herself.

His smirk grew mischievous. “In most situations, perhaps not. But in this one, yes.”

“Are you implying that some do address you as ‘sir’?” asked Hermione incredulously. As if he could not think any higher of himself…

“Of sorts,” he said. His lips were fighting a smile so much that Hermione felt she was missing something important.

“Your friends?” pressed Hermione, glancing to the group of men and women that were chatting quietly by the fire but watching them with intrigue. Riddle’s smirk fell slightly, along with the softness behind his stare.

“I’m only joking,” said Hermione quickly, smiling. “Although they do seem to admire you so. You’re without a doubt the leader among them.”

“I do not intend to be,” said Riddle, glancing from her to his friends. “They naturally look to those they can learn from, those that will guide them when they need to be guided.”

“And that is you?”

Riddle's smile returned as he leaned his head towards her, crossing his ankles. "Have you not learned from me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione scoffed but smiled. "Touché."

Riddle knew perfectly well that he was powerful and intelligent: qualities of a natural-borne leader. It was clear from just one night surrounded by Riddle’s posse that they all looked up to him. It had been obvious at Hogwarts - the way Slytherin students followed him around. There was no point in Riddle pretending to be modest or closed off about her insinuation. Being a leader was admirable; being a tyrant was destructive.

Hermione watched Riddle carefully, balancing the qualities of an honorable leader and a tyrant. He undoubtedly displayed characteristics for both. His intelligence, talent, and the way he could command a room were certainly reasons why his group of friends looked up to him. But he was also manipulative, ambitious, and unafraid to use different methods to achieve power. There were countless tyrants and dark sorcerers throughout history that displayed the same behavior. They had also all been defeated.

Riddle was uncharacteristically choosing comfort over grace. He was undoing the top button of his dress shirt and loosening his tie, all while holding his glass of red wine steady and elegantly in his other hand. He bent his head, looking down to make sure he had not crinkled his shirt too much. The movement shifted his wavy hair and his eyelashes cast a dark shadow down his high cheekbones. Hermione was momentarily taken aback by his beauty. He truly was ethereal in his own authentic, dark sort of way.

How could someone so beautiful possibly be hiding so many dark secrets? The more Hermione got to know him, the more wary she felt on the inside. Shouldn't it be the opposite effect? No matter what Riddle told her or how generous he pretended to be, many things simply did not add up: his unusual, natural magical powers; his interest in the Dark Arts; his ability to speak Parseltongue. It was enough to set Hermione’s teeth on edge if she thought about it hard enough. The trouble was that she hadn’t been thinking about it enough. He had distracted her (as she supposed he _meant_ to) with his generosity, civil conversation, making her tea in his apartment, gifting the book about bonding magic, kissing her knuckles, twirling her around the dance floor, and tonight's subtle flirtation…

But what if the truth was something terrible? What if his interest in the Dark Arts wasn't purely academic, as her gut told her. What is Abraxas and Alfyn's anxious and closed-off behavior whenever Hermione mentioned Riddle had basis? And if he truly was a Parselmouth, and did not simply just learn the snake language like Dumbledore and so many had... How could she allow herself to continue with him if she brought the truth to light? She needed his help, but could she live without it? It was the question of _how_ she would find the truth that Hermione knew would cloud her thoughts for weeks to come.

“Miss Granger?”

“What?” jumped Hermione, nearly spilling her wine.

“You wanted to talk about your magic?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’m growing rather tired and it’s making me space out…” she spluttered.

“Shall I escort you to the Floo?”

“Oh, no. I wish to fulfill the night just like everyone else. I certainly don't need to give Walburga any more reasons to come after me."

Riddle glanced towards the couches. “I do apologize for Walburga and Sophia’s behavior."

“They’re not under your jurisdiction,” shrugged Hermione, eyes keenly observing a possible reaction. “You mustn’t apologize for them.”

Riddle straightened from his relaxed lean against the wall. “Still,” he said firmly, “they were wrong to bully you. I was not aware of your relationship with Walburga's estranged cousin, but I disagreed with her on all accounts, especially when she compared your features.”

Hermione's shoulders stiffened at his insinuation. He surprised her further by continuing, “You looked far more beautiful than anyone else tonight, Miss Granger.”

 _Beautiful…_ he had called her beautiful. Why did one word have a greater impact on her than when her own date, or Alfyn, or even Elphiard Longbottom had complimented her in the same fashion? And yet Riddle's quiet utterance of the word made her breath stall. Was it because it seemed so unlike him? Riddle was cold, emotionless, careless. But he hadn't been tonight. Not with her.

She composed herself just enough to reply, “Don’t let Sophia here you say that.”

They both glanced over to the girl in question, who was obviously watching them out of the corner of her eye while talking with Palmorus Carrow, Lionel Mulciber, and his date.

“Who is that girl? I’ve been trying to place her all this night,” asked Hermione finally.

“Druella Rosier. She’s a sixth year at Hogwarts, I believe. Lionel’s parents wish for him to court her, but I hear Pollux Black is already writing up a contact with her for his younger son.”

Hermione hummed. She must be Victor Rosier’s sister, or at least related to him in some way.

"I don't think she likes me very much, either," said Hermione. "I caught her glaring at me earlier."

Riddle chuckled when she rolled her eyes. "Miss Rosier clearly put in hours of work into her appearance and neither arrived looking as effortlessly beautiful as you, nor with the social caliber of date that you had on your arm tonight.

Hermione ignored the repetitive compliment, returning to the reason she had even asked to speak with him in the first place to divert from her flushed cheeks. “Well, I uh- Anyways... My magic? Something has changed, although I’m not sure what. I was angry earlier - about Walburga and Sophia - and my magic was, too. It was reacting to _me_ for the first time - instead of you or some other dark object.”

Riddle looked amused and cheeky. “Are you insinuating that I’m a dark object?”

“Are you?” Hermione challenged, raising her brow.

Riddle’s smirk vanished and his lips tightened in a firm smile, his eyes hardening. “Don’t insult me now, Miss Granger, not after the lovely night we have shared together.”

Before Hermione’s mind could even try to relive the time she spent in his arms, she cleared her throat and pressed on.

“It's like I can describe it now. Before, it felt like a completely different being - like it didn't belong to me. Now it reacted in equal with me. For the first time it felt...deviant. Dark.”

Riddle simply nodded in response. “I asked you this once before, during our first lesson two weeks ago. Describe your magic then.”

“It was trying to protect me - but not in a way I wanted it to. It wanted to hurt Walburga and Sophia for insulting me and lash out at Nott for trying to rile me up. It didn’t feel like me at all, but malicious and hungry. Ready to strike. Impatient.”

Riddle was staring at her, looking contemplative and perhaps even slightly victorious. She assumed he had an answer.

“I'm guessing this isn’t a good sign?” asked Hermione, already knowing the answer.

“That your magic seems to be a completely different entity, with completely different motives from yourself? No, it’s not a good sign.”

“It’s finally happening then,” whispered Hermione, fear lacing her voice. “The necklace is finally changing my magic… Changing me.”

“I believe so,” said Riddle with a pinched brow. “Although it’s nothing to fret over yet. Anger is a common emotion. It is when you begin to feel unusual sensations that we may realize how dangerous the necklace really is.”

Hermione threw back the last of her wine and looked up at him. An eyelash had fallen on his cheek and she was momentarily reminded of the way her mother used to put them on her fingertip and tell her to make a wish and blow it away. A pang of sadness, then, because Riddle had never had a parental figure in the Muggle orphanage to teach him such small and silly habits. For a ridiculous moment, she imagined brushing her fingertip across his high cheekbone and telling him to make a wish. He would surely curse her if she tried it.

“Is that how you knew?” she asked. “Is that when you realized that studying the Dark Arts was changing you - when you started feeling detached emotions?”

He nodded. “Like what?” Hermione pressed, wondering what she could be up against in the near future.

“Hatred, mostly,” said Riddle. Hermione frowned; she had never hated anyone in her life. “But that hatred led to more terrible feelings, hopes, and urges.”

“Like…wanting to hurt someone?” she whispered, feeling sick.

“Yes,” Riddle admitted, as if it was a simple answer with easy consequences.

“What if it’s even worse for me?” said Hermione. That very question had, lately, kept her from sleeping at night. She would toss and turn for hours with images of her harming her family and friends, and when she finally did sleep, her nightmares made her wish she stayed awake. “What if I _do_ hurt someone? You can fight it, but what I'm cursed. What if I can't? What if I hurt my father -”

“Hermione.”

The use of her first name halted the words and worries in her throat. Riddle was looking at her sternly and a long-fingered hand was resting on her bare arm.

“We’ll figure this out. I’ll do everything I can,” he promised quietly.

Would he? Riddle's sincere expression offset her caution, but she was no fool. She refused to be tricked.

“Ok,” she breathed, relenting her suspicious train of thoughts for tonight.

“Maybe we should meet more than once a week,” suggested Riddle, dropping his hand from her arm.

Hermione considered his offer. It certainly couldn’t hurt, no matter her personal feelings, but it would not stop her from doing her own research either.

Maybe, in hindsight, it was a good idea to get closer to Riddle. Surely she could discover his true intentions if their acquaintance shifted into a careful friendship. And if his intentions threatened her or anyone else, wasn't it best to keep your enemies close?

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” she decided, ignoring the anxiety she felt at the prospect of seeing Riddle more often. “What is your schedule like?”

“I work every day but Sundays, which you know already. Do you work the late shift on Wednesdays as well?”

“Yes, I do. I’m not sure I would be able to sneak out any other evening without my father growing suspicious.”

“I understand,” said Riddle, looking thoughtful. “I would prefer more than a day in between lessons so we can document any improvements or deterioration...” he trailed off at Hermione’s unnerved expression. “Not that there will be any,” he added.

“You’ll already be at my home on Sundays, won’t you?” said Hermione, thinking aloud. “We could do Sundays and Wednesdays.”

“Yes, but we always finish in the lab just before dinner. I cannot impose that long every week.”

Hermione nodded, looking around in thought. Alfyn and Abraxas looked up from the couches. She gave them an encouraging smile and their faces relaxed slightly. She wondered what she and Riddle must look like, tucked away in the dark corner and whispering to one another. They knew about Riddle and the necklace now, though, so they were more than likely concerned that something had happened to her.

“I can figure that out,” said Hermione. “It will look too suspicious if you always stay for dinner, and I still don’t want my father to know about the necklace. He asked you to dinner tomorrow night, didn’t he? We can find a way to sneak up to my rooms.”

A smirk immediately began growing on Riddle’s face and Hermione rolled her eyes, holding up a bossy hand to halt any snarky commentary.

“Do not _even_ think of going there,” she growled.

It seemed, though, that Riddle couldn’t help himself.

“I always knew you wanted to invite me into your bedroom,” he said with a grin to soften his playful words. It was quite uncharacteristic for him, which was why it secretly humored Hermione to no end.

She scoffed and swatted his chest, fighting her own smile. In the background, there were several gasps from the armchairs and couches. Hermione vaguely wondered what they were all discussing.

“You’re incorrigible,” she spat, crossing her arms. "Honestly, Mr. Riddle, that behavior is surprising coming from you."

“I know,” Riddle chuckled, leaning against the wall in a relaxed fashion once more. He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffled the coif, and pushed it off his forehead.

“And here I thought you were a gentleman and incapable of making such crude jokes.”

Riddle’s sharp laughter rang through her pleasantly.

“No matter,” she sighed. “It will be best this way, and now I don’t have to bombarde your apartment twice a week.”

“I promise you; you wouldn’t have been an imposition. But I agree that it might work well this way. If your father grows suspicious, however, then we will have to make other arrangements.”

“If we play it right, he won’t. You might be forced to climb up to my window,” she smirked, suppressing a giggle at the image.

Riddle seemed aghast at the idea, but he seemed to find amusement in it as well as his blue eyes filled with mirth.

“Will you let down your hair?”

Hermione laughed even as her brows pinched in confusion. "What in Merlin's name do you mean?"

Riddle shifted awkwardly but chuckled. "Never mind, that. You wouldn't understand... Besides, I think your hair is much too bushy, anyway. I could get caught in it.”

Hermione tried to appear affronted, but Riddle’s own humor destroyed her concealment. She had the urge to swat at him again but refrained and laughed instead.

“Insulting a woman's hair? I thought you were intelligent.”

His flash of white teeth faded into a closed-lip smirk as he reached out a hand again, this time tugging on her long, styled waves. Hermione froze in shock, his knuckle brushing her collarbone lightly before dropping the curl and returning to his side.

“I like your natural hair better, believe it or not, _Hermione._ ”

“Are we truly on a first name basis then, _Tom_?”

She enjoyed saying his name almost as much as she enjoyed hearing him say hers. Riddle threw back his glass, finishing his wine. He licked his lips, and Hermione noticed the wine had stained them red.

“I would like to be.”

“Very well, then,” she said. “Tom it is. Shall we rejoin the party? I think I’ve had enough festivities for one night, and I wish to say my goodbyes so I can take these shoes off.”

Tom breathed a laugh but motioned for her to lead the way.

Conversations became hushed as everyone avidly watched them return. Abraxas was shifting to the end of the couch, offering her seat back. Eleanor was smirking at her.

“Finally, Tom,” cooed Sophia Parkinson, patting the cushion that was still open next to her. “I didn’t want you to get too bored over there.”

Hermione scowled openly at the witch. What did Sophia think she was? A Flobberworm?

“I can assure you I wasn’t,” said Tom politely. Hermione just smiled innocently as Sophia turned over a glare. “I believe Miss Granger will now be taking her leave. In fact, we should all consider no longer imposing on our host."

Abraxas immediately stood to attention and Hermione smiled at him, setting her empty wine glass on the mantel.

“Let's go then,” said Orion Black gruffly. He stood and pulled Lillian Abbott with him, who looked very bored and uncomfortable.

“Me too, then,” said Walburga maliciously, glaring at her rebellious cousin and his date. The witch would do everything in her power to keep the girl from going home with her future fiancée. Lucretia Black and Olive Hornby joined Walburga's side as she stood, but Sophia remained sitting, probably in the hope that Tom would be her escort.

Orion and Walburga were caught in a staring match as everyone else began grouping together and saying goodbye.

“Did you leave anything in the guest room?” asked Abraxas after Hermione took his arm.

“No. Lolpey took everything home - even my traveling cloak, I think. I should apparate home,” said Hermione, not wanting to get soot on her dress.

“Emaex, Victor, help yourself to more drinks," said Abraxas. "The rest of us will escort the ladies down." Avery and Rosier did not complain, delving back into conversation and refilling their empty tumblers with firewhisky.

Tom began leading the queue from Abraxas's rooms, Sophia Parkinson clinging to his arm. Nott and Mulciber took an extra woman on each arm along with their dates as Palmorus Carrow swept Victoria out of the room behind them. The remainder of the party followed, Walburga hurrying after Orion and latching onto his free arm greedily, much to his and Lillian’s surprise.

Abraxas and Hermione brought up the rear, walking slowly back down the corridor and towards the grand staircase.

“Did you enjoy your night?” asked Abraxas.

Hermione smiled up at him, memories of soft touches and a polished marble dance floor flashing through her mind. At the recollection of their almost-kiss on the terrace, she tried to cover her embarrassment with another smile.

“I did. Thank you for inviting me.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” said Abraxas before warning her to watch her step as they descended the stairs. “What were you talking about with Tom?”

Hermione knew that question had been on the tip of his tongue since she rejoined his side.

“Something happened tonight and we think it's best we meet for lessons more often.”

When she looked up to witness his reaction, she was surprised to see him glaring at the back of Tom’s head.

“What happened?”

“Nothing serious,” she assured him, although she wasn’t sure how true that really as. “But there isn't time to explain now. I can tell you later.”

“Maybe we can meet up soon?” asked Abraxas, sounding hopeful. Hermione knew what that meant; he wanted to talk about what had happened between them tonight.

She swallowed thickly before nodding. “Sure. Owl me when you're free. I can show you what Tom and I have been practicing and update you on my research.”

“Your project?”

“No,” chuckled Hermione. “I think I rather have bigger concerns at the moment. Runic healing can wait for now.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but my offer is still on the table about a job. I can put in a good word for you at the Ministry - loads of us could. The Department of Mysteries would be lucky to have you and your research.”

“Thanks, Brax,” said Hermione softly, squeezing his arm. “You’re a good friend.”

The words settled heavily between them, and they both went silent. Hermione cast her eyes towards the floor, wondering what 'friend' meant to him and to her. It was habit that had slipped out, but after what had happened tonight, it sounding like a friend zone.

He _was_ a good friend, though. He was her best friend. Nothing would change that, no matter what transpired between them in the future. She resolved with herself in that moment to allow things to play out naturally. She was not in the right mind to ponder her feelings for Abraxas, as she was sure he did not know what to think of his own. She didn’t want to leave things unresolved, not after such an enjoyable night. But there was too much to be pondered and said, and so little time to do either. So, Hermione moved her hand into his and squeezed lightly, letting him know she was feeling the very same way as he. He smiled reassuringly and brought her knuckles to his lips before tucking her hand back in the crook of his elbow.

Hermione looked away from him, hiding a grin. It was a very sweet gesture that made her feel like a giddy schoolgirl - a very different response to the same action Tom Riddle often performed

The arrival room at Malfoy Manor was a welcome sight when the group finally reached it. Abraxas and Hermione sauntered in last. The men were helping the women into their traveling cloaks.

“Goodnight, Hermione!” called Victoria, wrapped up in her cloak. She sauntered over and they shared a quick kiss on the cheek before she did the same with Abraxas. Palmorus Carrow shook hands with Abraxas before disappearing into the Floo after Victoria. Alfyn and Abraxas shared a look as if to say _‘Thank Merlin’_ and Hermione felt sort of bad for the poor fellow who had probably felt like an outcast among Abraxas’s Slytherin friends all night. Out of all the men, Palmorus and Orion looked the most miserable. Palmorus wasn’t friends with them like Orion was, but Walburga’s clingy presence had certainly ruined his night.

“Let’s go home, Orion,” said Lucretia firmly, pulling her brother by the sleeve. He bid a quick farewell to his date and followed Lucretia into the Floo. That left Lillian Abbott standing awkwardly behind, Walburga grinning nastily in triumph. Hermione went to her aid just as Walburga turned and bid Tom a good night.

“Lovely to see you, as always, Walburga,” said Tom, kissing her hand like a gentleman.

As Hermione passed behind the pair, she heard Walburga whisper, “See you Friday.”

Hermione felt an unfair curiosity and a tightness in her chest that she could not place. What was happening Friday?

“It was so lovely to see you again, Lillian,” said Hermione truthfully. She promised the girl to watch out for her owl so they could grab tea sometime soon and saw her into the Floo. Poor Lillian. She was naïve for getting caught in Orion’s rebellious game of _‘How Long Can I Avoid Marrying My Deranged Cousin?’_

When she turned around again, it was to catch a glimpse of Tom staring at the back of Walburga’s curly black head with ultimate displeasure. Luckily, Abraxas was ushering her towards the Floo. She shoved past Hermione, glaring, and called out an obnoxiously loud goodbye to everyone before tossing in her own handful of Floo powder.

“Goodnight,” said Sophia Parkinson, who followed in the Floo after Olive Hornby, Druella Rosier, and Nott's date.

As soon as the flames died, Eleanor groaned. “I can’t stand that bitch.”

Hermione swatted her arm, but the comment had everyone in the room laughing. She waved a simple goodbye to the men she did not know well, but Aveus Nott stepped up to her.

“I apologize for earlier,” he said before kissing her knuckles. “I didn’t mean to insult you, and I definitely didn’t think it would rile up Walburga and Sophia.”

Hermione smiled stiffly, but it felt more like a grimace. “I think you did mean it,” she said, "though I am not sure why." Nott's smile hardened before he nodded once and stepped away. He and Mulciber said a final goodbye to Eleanor before leaving the room.

"The men are staying for more drinks, then?" asked Eleanor, glancing at Nott and Mulciber's retreating backs.

"Just for a while longer," said Tom, apparently speaking for the host. He then turned to say goodnight to Eleanor.

Hermione stepped over to kiss Eleanor's cheek before turning to Tom. She watched the green flames die as Eleanor Floo'd home. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said quietly.

“I am very much looking forward to it,” Tom replied, reaching for her hand. He pressed a long kiss to her knuckles, looked up at her through his lashes, and smirked.

Hermione would have probably blushed if she hadn't been taken aback once again by his cheeky behavior. He was so unlike his usual self tonight that she wondered how much wine he had had to drink. She simply laughed and shook off his hand, shaking her head incredulously at him.

She moved away from him and pressed kisses to both Alfyn and Abraxas's cheeks.

“Just wear my robe,” Abraxas told her. “No need to apparate. It’s too cold to walk to the gates.”

“Oh, very well.”

Just as Abraxas began shrugging his outer dress robe off, Tom surprised them all by stepping forward. He unmistakably shot a look at Abraxas over the top of Hermione’s head as he said, “Take mine. We’re seeing each other tomorrow, after all. You can return it then.”

Hermione could only nod her assent. Tom slipped out of his black robe and held it out for her.

“Goodbye, then,” she said, feeling silly as she slipped her arms through Tom’s robe. She was immediately engulfed in the smell of pine and sandalwood.

They all echoed her sentiments, and Hermione bestowed one last smile on Abraxas, avoiding Tom’s gaze. She tossed in her Floo powder and announced her way home.

Lolpey was loyal and waiting for her on the parlor couch when she arrived. The sweet creature jumped up immediately.

“Sorry, Miss, Lolpey was tired and - ”

“Lolpey, you’re perfectly fine to sit on the couch. It’s your home, too.”

Her big green eyes widened, and she dropped her small head onto her chest, suspiciously wiping at her eyes with her green apron.

Hermione slipped out of Tom’s cloak reluctantly and hung it on the coat rack. It had a few marks of gray ash on it, and she was thankful he had sacrificed it for her dress. Lolpey had always told her that too many cleaning charms were bad for certain materials.

“Do you mind cleaning Mr. Riddle’s cloak?” asked Hermione, fighting a yawn. “My wand is upstairs. He’ll be here tomorrow to retrieve it.”

“Of course, Miss!” Lolpey snapped her fingers and the cloak was clean again.

“Has father gone to bed?”

Lolpey smiled bashfully and followed Hermione out of the parlor.

“Master was very…funny tonight,” said Lolpey, leaving Hermione in a fit of giggles. “Lolpey put Master to bed. Master wanted Lolpey to wait up for Young Miss.”

“Well, thank you,” said Hermione, “but you may go to bed now, Lolpey. I’m quite fine to manage on my own tonight.”

Hermione knew how much Lolpey loved to do anything and everything for her, but sometimes she wanted a little independence. Tonight, it seemed the small creature was too tired to be offended, and therefore bowed and disapparated to her private quarters.

Hermione let herself release a great yawn as she ascended the stairs to her room, shutting lamps off along the way. She wanted to simply collapse into bed once she closed her bedroom door behind her, but she forced herself into her closet. After unzipping her dress and draping it across the small white futon, Hermione removed her underthings and slipped into a nightgown. She meandered into the bathroom, relieving herself before moving quickly through her nighttime routine. Her makeup washed away easily, but it took several minutes to brush out her hair. It was stiffer than usual with the products and charms Lolpey had used several hours before. In the end, she decided to braid it.

After brushing her teeth, Hermione finally found her way into bed. Her wand was on the bedside table, but as she picked it up, she realized that for the first time ever, she did not feel a surge of magic flowing through her arm and down into the vine wood. It was further proof that she was more bonded with her inner magic than ever before. The thought would have made her happy if it was her own doing. But it wasn’t.

Hermione clutched the very reason for her worry in a tight grip. The emerald was heavy in her hand, the diamond setting cutting into her palm. She sighed and put down her wand.

A lamp across the room was still on. Hermione closed her eyes, focusing, reaching for the light source with all the power she could muster. She felt her magic curling, stretching, aiming for the lamp. She chanted ‘ _Nox Limparia’_ over and over, wishing the lamp to distinguish. A loud _pop_ and the sound of shattering glass made her jump. The lamp light had extinguished, but it was due to the breaking of the light bulb. Hermione groaned and fell back into her pillows.

If she couldn’t gain control of her magic - and soon - then she was surely doomed.

“Why won’t you obey me,” Hermione hissed at her magic, rolling onto her side.

But she couldn’t feel it anymore. The idea that it hid from her more than it behaved openly frightened her even more. What if that only gave it more time to corrupt her?

It was nearly two in the morning when Hermione finally fell into a deep sleep, only to wake hours later in a fit. Her mind seemed to enjoy playing out possible horrible and violent scenarios that the curse could prove reality one day. She could only fall back asleep under the reassurance that, with Tom Riddle's assistance, it would hopefully never come true.

This time, she dreamt of sharing a kiss with a tall, faceless man with pale blonde hair. As they pulled away, their lips red and their smiles big, there was a flash of green light. The fair-haired man fell dead at her feet. She screamed and fell to her knees. In the distance another man - one with dark hair and terrifying red eyes- was stowing away his wand, grinning darkly at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be so much longer than I planned! I added 1k words just in the editing process, but I really wanted good dialogue here as I introduced new characters. Anyways, I hope it was worth it!
> 
> Thank you all for your endless support! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I keep improving the outline for it every day, and I can't wait for you all to see what is in store! In the meantime, enjoy watching Hermione's plan begin to unfold... Just when y'all thought she was warming up to Tom...HA!
> 
> Did you enjoy reading the interactions in this chapter? Who is your favorite character so far? I appreciate your reviews so much! 
> 
> More to come soon! The next chapter is nearly finished! xx Elizabeth


	9. Lost Control and Family Secrets

Hermione spent most of the afternoon (since she had slept most of the morning away) rereading _The Essence of Magic Bonding_. She took the book down to the gardens, where she found solace in the middle of her father’s hedges. There was a fountain in the center, along with a few benches. It was where she had dismissed Tom Riddle the day they had made their compromise by the apple trees, since it was the only point of Apparition within the estate's boundaries.

It was chilly outside, but the sun was warm, and Hermione felt quite comfortable in her thick cloak. She had a couple more books with her, along with her wand, and had spent the day reading, researching, and practicing. She had made some advances, summoning stones wandlessly before tossing them back into the fountain. One passage had been helpful in her research, but really said nothing that Hermione did not know already:

**‘Control in Wandless Magic’**

_Magic bonds are a special and unusual type of magic for its complexity. Once a connection is made with a wizard or witch and their inner magic, it must be constantly trained. A wand is the practical object used to channel magic, but without it, magic has no controlled source of direction. Such magic is difficult to perform. Only the most powerful and disciplined of wizards and witches hone the ability to perform consistent and reliable wandless magic. If not trained or performed properly, the result may be volatile and, in some cases, disastrous._

_In England, the Ollivander family began manufacturing wands in 382 B.C.E. On the continent, the wand was invented in Europe in the early C.E. era, although the exact date is unknown. However, wand development did not reach every part of the world. Native Americans used their own forms of practice, predating European contact, of which did not require a wand. Furthermore, the wand was not adopted on the African continent until the first decade of the twentieth century. Since then, it is still only adopted by few, and a study conducted in 1935 dictated that the magical African community still do not deem wands necessary for their practices._

_It is in these communities that one may learn the best methods of control over their inner magic. In_ “ **Magiese Praktyke van die Negentiende Eeu” (“Magical Practices of the Nineteenth Century”)** _by Aitan Ndlovu, wandless training practices are described, highlighting the need for a sound mind, confidence, and a calm connection with one’s soul…_

Hermione sighed and tossed the book onto the bench beside her. She had searched _Secondhand Tomes_ and _Flourish and Blotts,_ as well as the catalogues at both stores after the first read through of the book last week, but had found nothing on Aitan Ndlovu’s. Hermione's only guide to wandless magic seemed to be Tom. The other books in her family's library were less than helpful. She was working on, and making strides with, focusing on clearing her mind and attaining confidence while practicing, but she had no idea how to be 'connected to her soul.' Tribal magic in Africa and the Americas was much less reliant on wands and research compared to Europe. Hermione found it fascinating, but it wasn't helpful. Native magical science was largely a secret. The people in those communities did not like interacting with the outside world or sharing their centuries of knowledge and practices. It was why Ndlovu’s book, who Hermione discovered was a South African wizard, was such a gem, and she was dying to read it for the assistance it would most likely offer.

Still, as the sun began to set, Hermione was proud of the advancements she had made that day. Meditating seemed to be the key for her. It was not easy to relax her mind, but it wasn't impossible. Her magic was much more willing to obey than it had been two weeks ago. Again, Hermione knew this likely had more to do with the curse consuming her than with her knowledge and ability, but she was still hopeful.

Hermione gathered up her books and parchment with scribbled notes. She was beginning to grow cold as the temperature dropped with the setting sun and wanted a warm bath before dinner. As she neared the modest brick home, she remembered that Tom Riddle was inside. He had arrived late just as Hector Granger had advised the previous night at Malfoy Manor. Hermione had attended a very late brunch with her father, who had certainly been nursing a hangover in his mug of coffee. It had certainly been a good idea to postpone their Sunday apprenticeship.

Hermione made a quick decision to discard her heavy cloak by the staircase before dipping through the slightly ajar door that led down to her Hector’s potions lab. It was hot at the bottom of the stairs, a sign that Tom and her father were still brewing madly. They did not hear her approach, so she stopped at the bottom of the stairs to watch them.

A large cauldron was bubbling loudly, apparently their trial for the day. Hector was in the corner, flicking through his notes on the countertop and skimming over them quickly. He flicked his wand and a book soared over to him. Hermione suppressed a giggle as he fumbled to catch and open it, nearly dropping it in the process as he began feverishly flipping through the pages.

“Aha!” he cried after a moment.

The back of Tom's dark head looked up eagerly, ceasing his chopping of some sort of root. He was in a black t-shirt, the most casual thing she had ever seen him wear. His usual dress pants fit snugly around his legs, but it was the exposure of his arms that had Hermione staring. She noticed his collared shirt draped over a stool. Clearly, it was too hot to wear long sleeves; Hector, too, seemed to be sweating profusely in his gray lab robes. His lab hat, so similar to the one Professor Slughorn had always worn, was tilted sideways and looked ready to fall off. Hector's salt and pepper hair look frizzy from where it had escaped the sides, so much like Hermione's curls when she didn't have her magical products applied.

“Let’s only add half of the Asphodel root this time, Tom,” said Hector. “We haven’t tried that yet - and mixed with the higher dosage of the unicorn blood, it may work!”

“Yes sir,” said Tom, his biceps flexing as he began chopping what Hermione figured was the Asphodel root. The back of his neck was shining with sweat, and damp, wavy hair was curling around his nape.

“Perhaps we should try the root at two centimeters this time, sir,” said Tom, glancing up at Hector.

“Yes, yes!” said Hector over his shoulder, grabbing a quill and jotting down the change in his trial notes.

Tom had picked up a ruler now, crouching down lower until he was eye level with the table. For an entire minute, he measured the Asphodel root to precision, and then cut them. He measured them again before setting them on a separate cutting board and placing them aside.

“It’s ready, sir.”

Hector bustled over, his notebook and quill in hand. If he had not been so focused on his work, he would’ve seen Hermione the moment he turned around and walked around the table to Tom’s side. Tom’s shoulders were stiff as Hector dropped the Asphodel roots into the boiling brew.

“Ten clockwise, and then pause,” muttered Hector.

Tom immediately took up a ladle and stirred the cauldron. Hermione watched the veins in his forearm as he slowly directed the clockwise movements. On the seventh turn, the potion suddenly frothed and boiled over in a small geyser.

“By Salazar!” cried Hector angrily. “Just as I was beginning to think we were on the right track!”

Tom stayed silent. He had stepped away to avoid getting splashed. His broad shoulders were tense, and he ran a hand through his hair before resting both hands on his hips, his head bent in defeat. Hermione imagined he was glaring at the potion. He must have been both annoyed and angry at their failure, because his magic immediately seeped into the room, leaving Hermione breathless as her own magic protruded from her in a great leap to great him.

“Hello, Hermione,” said Tom, not picking up his head. He must have immediately felt her presence.

Her father turned towards her, his frown immediately warming into an exasperated but happy smile.

“Come in, dear,” said Hector, “and witness our tenth failure up close.”

Hermione snorted and shook her head, resting a hand on her father’s shoulder once she reached him. Standing between her father and Tom, Hermione peaked into the cauldron. The potion had turned black and the majority of it had spilled onto the tabletop. Hermione glanced up at Tom, who had not looked at her yet. He was frowning at the cauldron, looking thoughtful but peeved. His wavy hair was loose on his forehead and his cheeks were heated pink from leaning over the steaming potion. He looked so different than he usually did, in a sweaty black shirt and untidy hair. Hermione thought she might prefer him this way: completely immersed in something academic and challenging.

“I’ll jot down our findings,” sighed Hector, picking up his quill.

Tom seemed to be chewing the inside of his cheek now, for his jaw was clenching and his lips were pursed. “There’s no reason that should have reacted with the unicorn blood so poorly,” he said in exasperation. “It must be the Antimony.”

“Antimony? Isn’t that a poison?” asked Hermione.

Tom looked at her for the first time, but it was as if he looked right through her; his eyes were a deep pool of concentration.

“It is,” he said. “We think it’s one of the essential ingredients that could improve Gunhilda of Gorsemoor’s potion so that Dragonpox can be completely eradicated.”

“And poison is going to achieve that?”

Tom shot her an annoyed glare as if exasperated that she did already know the answer. “We’ve manipulated it by creating a separate potion with Alihotsy.”

“Ah…dilute the poison by joining it with Alihotsy, a euphoric ingredient that induces laughter and hysteria.”

Tom nodded and his feature's softened, apparently satisfied with her knowledge of obscure potions ingredients. He leaned against the table next to her in a relaxed fashion, all trace of annoyance gone in an instant. His mood swings shocked her sometimes.

“Yes…opposites attract,” said Tom, leaning towards her on his elbow. Hermione could smell the very same cologne that had lingered on the robe he had given her to Floo home in. Instead of clean sandalwood and pine, it was mixed with something very masculine and very _unlike_ Tom: a musk that hinted of sweat and old aftershave.

Hermione shook her head both to clear it and in amusement as she realized their mistake. She grinned at her father who had just set his quill down and stepped back to face both men.

“It doesn’t have to do with the Asphodel at all,” said Hermione. “Perhaps the measurements were wrong this time, but it’s the Antimony and Alihotsy mixture that needs tweaking.”

Tom looked annoyed and skeptical, but Hector was beaming as he said, “Do indulge us.”

“What was the temperature at?” asked Hermione.

Hector glanced to his notes. “Two-hundred degrees Celsius.”

“Don’t you both remember the melting point of Antimony?” pressed Hermione.

“Six-hundred and thirty degrees,” said Tom matter-of-factly. “But we’re not using it in its liquid form.”

“Maybe you should,” said Hermione in a bossy tone. “If Antimony is in its molten form rather than liquid, it may mix with Alihotsy, yes, but that doesn’t mean - ”

“It may not be completely diluted of its poison,” said Tom, catching on. He bestowed a handsome smirk on Hermione now and glanced to her father in excitement.

“Impossible,” said Hector, looking dubious. “One could take a full dosage of Antimony in the diluted form we’ve created and live as long a life as if they had drunk pumpkin juice.”

“Perhaps,” said Hermione, “but maybe it isn't diluted enough for some of the other ingredients involved -”

“It’s the unicorn blood,” Tom said quickly, and Hermione couldn't help but smile at the unconcealed excitement on his face. “Unicorn blood is much purer than any other ingredient in the potion. The unicorn blood is most likely reacting poorly to the Antimony because the poison is not diluted enough to combine with its refined contents.”

Hector’s eyes had widened and were darting between his apprentice and daughter. He quickly snapped out of it, began laughing heartily, banged a fist on the table, and viciously started to scribble down notes.

“By Salazar… Sweet Merlin…” he kept muttering in disbelief as his quill scratched on parchment.

Hermione glanced up to Tom, who was staring down at her. “Professor Slughorn was right,” he said. “I would’ve met my match in you if we had been in the same year at Hogwarts.”

“You’re far more brilliant than I am,” said Hermione. It didn’t even bother her to admit it, because she knew it was true. But she enjoyed being on the same academic level as someone else and she had a sneaking suspicion that Tom appreciated it as well. It was very rare to find in someone at their level.

“Well, well!” cried Hector, slamming down his quill. “We have much to go on next Sunday, Tom!” He clapped him heartily on the back and they both shook hands. “In the meantime, I’ll spend the week researching how on earth we are to reach a boiling point of over six-hundred degrees.”

“You both just needed a little reminder,” said Hermione, smirking.

“I daresay we did,” chortled Hector.

“It’s the lab,” said Hermione modestly. “The fumes get to your heads and cloud your judgement. It’s only an hour until dinner. Call it a day, won’t you father?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we should,” said Hector, running a hand over his short beard as he looked about the room. “Not much to clean up today. I can make quick work of it. You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you Tom, m’boy?”

“I would be delighted, sir,” Tom replied with a brief incline of his head.

“Show him to the guest room to tidy up then, dear, won’t you? We both need to freshen up, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” said Hermione.

 _Perfect_ , she hissed to herself. She and Tom could easily set their new lesson plan in action now. They had agreed the prior night that they needed to find a second day of the week to meet for research purposes. They discovered that Sunday evenings were the best choice, but only if they could keep it from Hector.

“This way then, Tom,” said Hermione, moving towards the stairs. “Dinner at seven, father!”

Tom retrieved his black button-up and tie off the stool and followed her up to the main floor.

“Let’s try to sneak past the elves,” said Hermione over her shoulder, motioning Tom towards the staircase. “They would wonder why I’m not showing you to the guest room on the first floor.”

Tom caught up to her side as they ascended the stairs. “Is this the part where you sneak me into your bedroom?” he asked smoothly, a smirk clear in his voice.

“Enough of that, will you?” Hermione reprimanded, failing to suppress a smile. She looked up at Tom as he fell into step with her. “I’ve never seen you so disheveled.”

As if realizing his hair was indeed out of place, he ran long fingers through it and pushed it off his forehead. “And you never will again, other than Sundays.” He glanced at her, humor and mischief in his blue eyes, and followed her into the second-floor corridor.

“Actually, it’s a nice change,” admitted Hermione. “You’re less intimidating this way.”

“You find me intimidating?” He looked pleased now.

“I think you know I do, although perhaps not as intimidating as others find you.”

“I won’t deny that,” said Tom, glancing at the art and portraits on the walls. “But that’s one of the reasons I like you, Hermione.”

Hermione flushed and fumbled with her doorknob before pushing into her bedroom. It was undeniable, really; something had changed between the two of them last night. It was clear from his continued playful flirtation, in addition to the use of their first names.

“You don’t mind change, then,” she continued. "You don't mind that I don't revere you in the same way as others."

Tom stalked in, looking around in interest, before turning to her. “I like a challenge.”

“And I am a challenge?”

“You’re different from anyone else I know. That makes you challenge,” he said simply.

Hermione pinched her eyebrows in thought and then breathed an incredulous laugh as she shut the door. “I am a challenge to _you_ because I am different, because I don’t give into you as easily as others.”

Tom went stiff in his visual perusal of her bedroom and he looked at her. “Where have you picked up such a sentiment?”

“I keep my eyes open,” said Hermione, brushing past him. “I did at Hogwarts, and I certainly did last night. Your friends adore you.”

“As they should. I have given them no reason not to.”

A strange answer...but she had left her statement open for interpretation. Hermione hummed, looking away from his hardened stare as if she did not notice his shift in mood.

“Anyway, here we are,” she said, storing away his peculiar answer and dynamic with his friends for later contemplation. “This is where we can meet, if possible.”

Tom walked a path in her bedroom, running his elegant fingers along the edge of her sleigh bed. “It’s quite how I imagined it,” he said.

“Is it?” Hermione spluttered. He had imagined her bedroom?

Tom chuckled and stepped over to her small sitting area, which was stationed in front of her bookcase. “A wall made of bookshelves, feminine white blankets with touches of red and gold in the décor,” he mused. “The mark of a proud Gryffindor.”

“That I am,” said Hermione, watching him closely as he skimmed the many books on her shelf.

“And yet, I think you would have made a fair Slytherin.” Tom smiled over his shoulder at her.

“I’m not one to spill my secrets to just anyone, but if you must know, the Sorting Hat _did_ consider it.”

“And Ravenclaw as well, I have no doubt.”

She returned his smile - a silent affirmation to his surmise. “As for you?” she continued. “Did the Hat consider a House other than Slytherin?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Tom, traces of pride and arrogance swimming into his irises. “I was chosen to be a snake before the Hat even touched the top of my head.”

Hermione’s brows rose at this. “How interesting… I wonder how it decided so abruptly.”

Tom’s resounding chuckle sounded empty as he shrugged and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're just a Slytherin through and through, aren't you?" she mused.

But inside, she found anything but humor in his story. Her mind was racing. She had, in fact, heard of another similar Sorting experience: her father's old school friend, Hepzibah Smith. The old woman loved to brag - that much Hermione knew from the many years of knowing her. Hepzibah had attended dinner or tea several times over Hermione's childhood, and usually talked the entire way through the gathering. Hermione usually blocked out most of the conversation, but there were some of the old witch's stories that she did remember. One in particular had been told on numerous accounts - usually when Hepzibah was blabbering on about her heritage and family heirlooms. When she had been Sorted in her youth, the Hat had placed her in her famous ancestor's House of Hufflepuff before it was even fully situated on her head.

Hermione had never given much thought to the link between Hepzibah's relation to the original Hogwarts' founder and her Sorting. But as Tom Riddle spoke of his own Sorting, the memories came flooding back. She had a hunch - a very far-fetched one that was highly unlikely... But from what she already knew about him... The consequences of her theory were so severe that Hermione actually felt a chill run down her spine.

Tom plucked a book from her shelf and turned it over in his hands, stroking the binding. It was very worn from use. Hermione had lost count of how many times she read most of the books in her small bedroom library.

“An interesting choice,” said Tom, looking up through his lashes at her.

She stepped up next to him to see what he had chosen, suddenly embarrassed that Tom Riddle of all people knew she read romance novels. He turned, facing her, and stroked a finger down the spine. Hermione followed the movement unconsciously.

“He’s more myself than I am,” he said in a low voice barely more than a whisper.

Hermione’s eyes darted between his lips and the book. She could not contain her surprise as she finished the passage: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Tom smiled and placed _Wuthering Heights_ back on the shelf.

“You read Muggle literature?” asked Hermione in disbelief.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re one of few who knows I was raised in a Muggle orphanage.”

“So, you didn’t wish to give up your upbringing?”

Tom’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t seem angry with her as his lips twisted into a frown. “No. I did, and I have. But I, more than others, can still appreciate some Muggle inventions, nineteenth century English literature being among them.”

Hermione breathed a shocked laugh before taking a step back. They had moved very close to one another and she had not even realized it.

"You are the pure-blood," he continued, stalking in front of her bookshelves to peruse some more. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ why you read Muggle literature?"

“I can appreciate nineteenth century English literature," she reiterated with a small smile. "And I suppose I can be a cliche sucker from romantics sometimes. But I certainly didn’t take you as a lover of Bronte,” she said, glancing between him and her books.

“Bronte, among others…” Riddle reached beside her, brushing her shoulder with his forearm, and picked up another novel. “Lacios, Dickens, Tolstoy, Austen, Mitchell -”

“Mitchell?” asked Hermione in disbelief.

“You haven’t read her? An epic of love and war - a classic that will probably extend through the ages."

“Of course, I’ve read Mitchell,” she said softly, crossing her arms as he put the book back, brushing her shoulder again. He did not move away from his close proximity.

‘ _Well, my dear, take heart. Some day, I will kiss you and you will like it. But not now, so I beg you not to be too impatient._ ’” 

Hermione knew she was blushing as she shook her head and said, “Out of every line, you chose that one?”

“I like it,” said Tom, smirking antagonistically. His eyes roved over her once, before meeting her own. “And which is your favorite? Of Mitchell?”

Hermione paused and looked at him slyly. “With you, I suppose it would be most fitting that it is: 'Sir, you are no gentleman!'”

Tom threw his head back in laughter. His loose, wavy hair moved with him before falling back over his squinted eyes as he straightened.

“An apt observation,” he quoted further, smirking now. “And, you, Miss, are no lady.”

Hermione scoffed but joined in his laughter. “They made a film adaption of it, you know - the Muggles,” she said.

“I did not know,” hummed Tom. “Have you seen it?”

“Of course not,” scoffed Hermione disdainfully. “Father would never allow it.”

“A shame.”

“You’ve been to the theatre then?”

“Once,” said Tom. “I snuck out of the orphanage when I was eight and slipped in with a Muggle family.”

“I’m jealous,” sighed Hermione, feeling like she could breathe again when he stepped away. “I hope to go one day.”

Tom said nothing and moved to look out her window, which lead to a balcony with a view of the back gardens. "It's just sound and moving pictures. When compared to what magic can do, it means nothing."

Hermione almost said that she didn't care how fantastic magic was; she still wanted to attend the theatre. But something in his tone made her stop and think twice about delving into the subject of Muggles and how interesting they were. He sounded both contemptuous and careless. 

Instead she said, “We should go over the plan. Dinner is in half an hour.”

“Very well. What do you have in mind?"

“In the occasion that you’re here for dinner, like tonight, I will offer to escort you to the Floo and bid my father goodnight. We will sneak up here instead.”

“And when I don’t dine with you? I wouldn’t want to impose often. I don’t want to be a burden on your father any more than I already am on Sundays,” Tom said, sounding very modest and rehearsed.

“I can promise you, you’re anything _but_ a burden. I’m pretty sure my father loves you more than he does me,” chuckled Hermione. “But if you leave from the lab, simply Floo home and then apparate back here.” She stepped over to join him by the window. “Remember the Apparition point in the garden?”

“I do.”

Hermione smiled in mounting humor. “You’ll have to apparate into the gardens and then climb up to my window.”

“I think I’d rather levitate,” said Tom, his nose scrunched in distaste as he glared out at the grounds. He looked like a stubborn child.

“Suit yourself,” she snickered. “Well then, we’ll see which way it will go later. Now I must ask you to leave so I can have a bath before dinner.”

Tom looked over at her, distaste wiped from his features completely. “What a shame,” he sighed dramatically, smirking as he made a show of appraising her from head to toe.

Hermione scoffed and made a dash for the bathroom. "You really are not gentleman," she quipped.

“Aren’t you going to be a proper host and show me to my own bathroom?”

Hermione turned in her bathroom's doorway and shot him a scathing look. “There’s a guest room two doors down on the left. Think you can manage finding it?”

Tom shrugged, sidling towards her bedroom door in lazy, long-legged strides. “I suppose,” he hummed. “Shame... I was finding it very cozy in here.”

Hermione was still so shocked by his flirtation that she could do nothing more than scoff again. “It won’t be so cozy after I smack you,” she threatened sarcastically.

Tom flashed straight white teeth as he laughed, pulling her bedroom door open. “I’ll be back to accompany you down, Hermione.”

She swallowed thickly and just nodded as he retreated. Rooted to the spot, she stared after him even when he disappeared, the door clicking shut behind him.

~

“Well, Tom, I must say I’m very much looking forward to next Sunday!” boomed Hector, slightly red in the face from his third glass of wine.

“As am I, sir,” replied Tom, cracking his crème brulee with a spoon. “It may be our most eventful trial yet. It’s all thanks to Hermione, of course.”

Hermione returned the smile he gave her, wondering if she had mistaken the pride in his voice. Her father shot her a wink.

“I told you she had the knack for potions!” said Hector proudly.

“I have the knack for remembering what I read, father, not for brewing,” Hermione corrected him modestly.

“Either way, you may have aided us in a breakthrough,” said Tom.

“Then I am glad,” she said simply, bringing her spoon to her lips.

Tom finished off his wine in an elegant tilt of the glass, licking his lips with a sigh.

“Has potions always run in the family?” he asked.

Hermione swallowed thickly around her dessert, hoping her father would steer the conversation in a different direction. She had a feeling that Tom already suspected the answer to his own question, and just wanted more details.

“Oh, yes,” sighed Hector sadly, setting down his glass of water. “My late wife was my partner in crime down in the lab. Brilliant, she was… It's where Hermione gets it from.”

Hermione smiled smally at her father, but otherwise stared down at her plate. Her mother was a touchy subject between the two of them, and they did not talk about her often.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” said Tom, looking guilty.

“Don’t be,” said Hector, waving him off. “We don’t talk about her enough.”

His tone was unsurprisingly sour as he said this, and out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw him glance at her. Her head shot up in defense and she returned her father's hard stare. Tom observed them in faint concern and interest. Hoping that was the end of it, Hermione spooned some crème into her mouth, swallowing it before looking away from her father. Dinner had gone well so far. The conversation had been interactive, and Tom had told stories from his travels last year. They had reminisced about Potions at Hogwarts with Professor Slughorn, and Hector had told them of his own batty professors back in the day

“Of course, it’s difficult to happily remember those we’ve lost,” continued Hector, still pointedly watching his daughter. “But it is shameful to forget them completely.”

Hermione clenched her jaw tightly, her temper rising fast. She felt her magic responding simultaneously - in a similar fashion to how Tom's magic had reacted in anger at the mention of his family - and when glanced up at him, she noticed his look of warning.

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said stiffly through gritted teeth, “if my father is upsetting you with such a dark conversation.”

Tom, for the first time, looked as if he did not know what to say. He just kept watching her.

“I’m sure it’s not,” said Hector rigidly. “Like I said, your mother should be talked about, not ignored.”

“I don’t ignore her,” snapped Hermione. “ _You_ are the reason we don’t talk about her.”

Hector’s beard quivered as he took a deep breath, his glare hardening on his defiant offspring. Hermione clenched her fists under the table, dessert course long forgotten, daring him to say another word.

“Excuse Hermione, Tom, for turning an innocent conversation about my late wife into an argument.”

Hermione scoffed rudely and threw her napkin onto the table. “An innocent conversation? You’re the one upsetting me,” Hermione spat, “and you know bloody well why.”

Hector's eyebrows pinched and he pointed his spoon at her. "Watch your language," he hissed.

Suddenly, their wine glasses shattered into pieces around the table. Tom and Hector had, luckily, already finished theirs, but Hermione’s was still half full and splattered onto her light blue robes.

Hector was staring in shock, but Tom looked unsurprised, staring at her in poorly hidden interest and maybe even a little humor.

“Hermione!” cried Hector sternly. “Control yourself! We have a guest.”

There was nothing Hermione hated more than being reprimanded when she was not in the wrong. “Yes, we do, father,” she hissed harshly. “You should remember that next time you want to bring up mum.”

She was dabbing at her dress rather roughly with her napkin, but it was to no avail. Furious, she shoved her chair away from the table and stood.

“I think I should retire for the night,” she said. “Tom, I can walk you out.”

“Do not dismiss our guest without my consent -”

“No, it’s perfectly alright, sir," interrupted Tom. "I should be going, anyway." And he made to stand up, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before tossing it across his plate. “Thank you for another wonderful Sunday, Mr. Granger.”

“I’m sorry Hermione’s behavior ruined the rest of the evening,” said Hector, as if she was not even in the room. Hermione scoffed again openly.

Tom looked between Hermione and Hector before simply nodding in response. Hermione left the room, wordlessly gesturing for Tom to follow.

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione called to her father over her shoulder. “Tell Lolpey not to bother me.”

She turned the corner and stomped her way, quite literally, towards the entrance hall, her magic a wild halo around her. She barely noticed when Tom caught up to her, her heels clicking loudly on the wood floors. They said nothing, bu when he made a move to turn into the parlor, she grabbed his shirt sleeve.

“Where are you going?”

He came to a halt, raising a brow as he tilted his head in surprise. If she wasn’t so upset, she would have laughed at the prospect of catching Tom Riddle off guard.

“After that display, I was certain you were wanting to retire for the night, or at least to have it out with your father in private,” said Tom.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Hermione quietly before she tugged him towards and up the stairs.

She was so upset - her magic so out of control - that her bedroom door blew open before they even reached it. She missed the bewildered but delighted look Tom bestowed on her as she stormed into the room. He closed it quietly behind them.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” said Hermione, unbuttoning the cuffed sleeves of her robes.

“Every family has their disputes,” said Tom nonchalantly, coming to stand in front of her.

“My father and I don’t talk about my mother for a reason,” scowled Hermione, pulling a pin out of her hair. “I can’t believe the blame he just put on me!”

Several books flew off her shelf, slamming loudly and haphazardly on the floor. One soared straight into her small, lit fireplace, catching flame immediately. The lightbulb that she had replaced from her mishap the night before shattered again and the lamp toppled over, the shade thudding softly against the rug by her couch. The fire in the hearth roared on its own accord, shooting sparks onto the carpet.

Suddenly, Hermione felt a cold pair of hands on her cheeks and a soft but gruff voice hiss, “Hermione!”

Tom pulled her attention away from the damaged corner of her room and the fire immediately returned to its rightful height, the book nothing but ash and a seared hardcover now. Hermione looked up at Tom in shock, her cheeks pinking with embarrassment at her outburst as well as the compromising position they were in. He had pulled her nearly flush against his chest, his fingers tight on the sides of her head. He was so close; he smelled like the soap in the guest bathroom and for the first time, Hermione noticed specks of gray in his eyes. She unconsciously took in the rest of his features, knowing she would probably never be this close to him again. His cheekbones were even sharper up close and there were a handful of faint, brown freckles on his forehead - though they were nothing in comparison to hers. His top lip was bowed aristocratically, stained red from the wine he had drunk at dinner. His lashes were as long as hers, casting shadows on his cheeks.

Hermione's breath stuttered as she drew a deep breath, her eyes flickering all over his handsome features. He had barely a flaw at all.

“Get control,” said Tom softly, his breath fanning over her face. It was warm, a stark contradiction to his cold palms on the apples of her cheeks.

That was when she felt it: he released his magic to twine with her own, calming her down and reeling her magic in like a fish on a hook. She could feel the very essence of him: a delicious darkness that did not frighten her as much as it used to. It was calm and comforting, covering her like a blanket in its warmth. But the remains of something deeper - something more malicious and tempting, even calamitous - made her shiver.

“I’m sorry,” squeaked Hermione, unable to look away from him. She felt vulnerable in this position, knowing he could see and feel _everything_ \- every flaw on her own face and the deficiency in her magic. It was intimidating, really, how beautiful he was in comparison. She understood why so many found him intimidating - why even she did, too, at times. He made her feel so small and unmagnificently plain next to him.

She hurriedly took a step back, Tom’s hands falling to his sides. She had always thought they would be soft, unnaturally soft, and they were, but they were also calloused and rough in places. Hermione bashfully glanced between Tom and the mess she made of her seating corner.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her hands coming up to her mouth. “I don’t know… I don’t know what happened.”

“Your magic consumed you,” said Tom calmly, “and you let it.”

Hermione could feel her throat tightening emotionally and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. With her anger fading, the night’s events rested like a heavy boulder on her shoulders, and the realization of what she had done, what she had felt, left her feeling weak.

“I wanted to hurt him,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I wanted to hurt him…”

Tom shifted, a frown gracing his lips. Hermione turned away from him so he wouldn’t see the tears clouding her vision. She felt his presence close behind her, heard his pants ruffle as he stepped closer. Then she felt a soft touch at her shoulder, which was oddly comforting despite how light the pressure was.

“You didn’t and that’s what matters,” said Tom firmly.

She supposed it was true, but his touch was more comforting than his words, which sounded oddly detached. She doubted he comforted tearful and upset girls very often, and like most men, probably had no clue what to do. The idea made her chuckle softly. Just as she was about to turn around, she felt his fingertips moving across her shoulder, heating the skin beneath her robes. They moved to the back of her neck quickly, giving her no time to process what he was doing as her heart skipped a beat. His fingers shifted her hair away, pushing it over her shoulder, brushing the side of her neck. Hermione released a nervous breath. For a moment, she thought Tom had stepped away, had touched her so intimately for no reason, but then she felt a light touch at the nape of her neck, and the small button at the top of her dress came loose. It surprised her, left her feeling breathless even as she wanted to tell him off for doing something so inappropriate. Luckily, the small buttoned clasp sat above a small keyhole at the back of her robes, and only showed a little of her upper back and shoulders when undone. Still, Hermione whipped around quickly, her eyes wide and alarmed.

She planned to reprimand him, to demand Tom not to touch her in such a way. Nothing came out; her lips simply parted in astonishment.

It was Tom that spoke instead. “Go change,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened. “I’ll clean up here.”

Hermione did not waste another second. She scurried off to her walk-in closet and stripped out of her ruined robes. She hung it on the dirty clothes rack. Hopefully Lolpey could save the dress. In the bedroom, she could hear books settling back on the shelves and the lamp repairing itself. Undressed down to her knee length slip, Hermione decided to remain casual and pulled a soft sweater off a hanger so that her slip could serve as a skirt. For a minute more, she sat down, collecting her thoughts. She scooped up Tom's borrowed robe from where she had draped it over the foot of her futon the night before.

Tom was stowing away his wand when she returned to her bedroom. Her small seating area no longer looked awry but was clean and pristine once more.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, motioning to her restored bedroom before holding out his dress robe.

Tom spared her a glance and a firm nod before taking his robe and sitting down on one of the armchairs, throwing it over the back. Hermione sat in the one next to him.

Hermione crossed her legs and faced him. “I’m sorry, again, about tonight. My father and I were in the wrong, forcing you to hear our private disagreements, and I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Tom, leaning back in his chair. “Like I said, every family has their quarrels. I should take no sides, but it seemed you were right to lose your temper. I’m not sure what you were arguing about, but your father seemed to be treating you unfairly.”

Hermione felt a surge of appreciation for Tom's intelligence and intuition. “Thank you for saying that. He was being very unfair.”

They fell into a stiff silence, one that was clearly begging for more to be said. Tom was too curious to keep his mouth shut for long, but Hermione knew what was coming.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he began, “but why exactly did your father badger you about your late mother?”

Hermione sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I suppose you have the right to know, now that you’ve been dragged into the middle of it.”

Tom had his eyebrows raised expectantly. His blue eyes were curious and eager as always when he was on the verge of getting something he wanted.

“Everyone knows that my mother is dead,” Hermione began, “but not everyone knows my father and I do not have the healthiest of relationships.”

Tom’s lips parted in surprise. “I would have never figured -”

“No one would,” interrupted Hermione, feeling slightly ashamed. “Only my friends know…Abraxas and Alfyn, Victoria and Eleanor. It’s largely a secret.”

Tom nodded in understanding before his face twisted in realization. "Your father mentioned the Malfoys invited you to France with us this last summer. He said it was due to private reasons and cautionary travel beliefs that you did not join us. I remember how upset you looked at the reminder. Does it have to do with your mother’s death?”

Hermione snorted and shook her head at him. “You already know," she deduced. "Who told you?”

“Abraxas,” said Tom simply. “Don’t be upset. I pressured him immensely.”

“I’m not," Hermione waved him off. "My mother’s death is no secret. The whole Wizarding world knows, as well as Wizarding Italy. What many don’t know, is that I am not allowed to travel outside of England, outside of London, really. I can Floo to Wiltshire to see the Malfoy's, or to Lestrange Manor in Manchester - you know, to see my friends. But Hogwarts was the one exception - has been the only exception - since I was seven years old.”

“When your mother died,” Tom hummed. His eyes were emotionless, as they most often were, but Hermione felt grateful to see no trace of pity or sadness in them. Too many people pitied her and her father for her mother’s death. It seemed like an obligation to pity someone who had lost family, and she hated how fake it was, how repetitive the apologies could be.

“Yes, she died when I was seven. My parents went to Greece and Italy for their tenth anniversary, to travel and visit mum’s sister in Thessaloniki. They left me behind - with the Malfoy's actually - and good thing, too, or else I may not be here to tell you any of this.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised in suspense, and she wondered if Abraxas had not told him the full story. It had always been a hard story to tell, that of her mother’s murder.

“They were in Wizarding Florence one night, for dinner, I think. My mother…she just _vanished_. My father told me, when I was older, that they had just paid the receipt, and that my mother mentioned popping out into the street where she had just seen a trolley pass, selling books. She wanted to get one for me, as a souvenir,” Hermione smiled softly. “Father said he sent her outside with the money, ran off to the loo, and when he returned she was just...gone.”

Tom was listening intently, his face a blank slate, but his eyes never left her as she spoke.

“Her body was discovered two weeks later in an abandoned pub in a bad wizarding alley in Florence - practically our equivalent to Knockturn Alley. Imperius, Crucio, the Killing Curse…the Healers detected all three. She was kidnapped, tortured, and then murdered.”

“Murdered abroad,” echoed Tom, “and so you have been denied travel by your frightened father.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I’m not allowed.”

“You’re of age and old enough to make your own choices.”

“Yes, but it would be going against my father’s wishes.”

“What of yours? I have seen it in your eyes, especially when I have recanted my stories abroad. You have a desire to travel, to see the world and its history, to apply everything you have rigorously learned your entire life to the _real_ thing.”

Hermione blinked away tears, looking away from him to hide the stinging in her eyes.

“I have the suspicion that his overbearing protection vexes you immensely.”

Hermione offered up an amused smirk to lighten the conversation. “Am I that obvious?”

“Anyone would be,” said Tom.

Hermione sighed and slumped in the chair, picking at a loose string on the hem of her sweater. “He hates not talking about her, which is ironic, but we don’t because it always results in an argument, like tonight.”

“Because you disagree with how he’s handled things.”

Hermione nodded. “He uses her as an excuse to hold me back, no matter how fatherly his intentions may be.”

Tom stayed silent, staring at her with a hand under his chin. Then his brow pinched. “You said it is ironic that your father wishes to speak of your mother. What did you mean by that?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, recrossing her legs and pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands.

“I shouldn’t… Abraxas is the only one who knows the whole story.”

“Well, rest assured he did not tell me any of what you just have,” said Tom, somewhat stiffly. “Do not tell me if you don’t wish to.”

His voice was sincere and nonchalant, and so Hermione relented. “I don’t think you’re much of a gossip, Tom, so I suppose I don’t mind.”

Tom breathed a laugh. “Not at all. Not like some of our other friends.”

Hermione laughed. He made a fair point. It was why she had never told Victoria, or even Eleanor or Alfyn. She knew she could at least trust the latter two, but the past was in the past now, and her mother’s death went largely unspoken between her group of friends.

“The authorities highly suspected Grindelwald’s hand in my mother’s death,” admitted Hermione slowly.

Tom straightened in surprise, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “How horrible - and strange.”

“It was - both. Only you and the Malfoy's know now, other than some Aurors in the Ministry, and friends of the family that have known my father for years - like Slughorn and Dumbledore. My mother died in 1936. By that time, Grindelwald’s cause was growing in Europe. He was recruiting followers…experts, even here in England. We received threats, even at our home. I don’t remember them, I was too young, but my parents were in a state of fear.”

“Grindelwald wanted your father for his talents,” said Tom knowingly.

“To brew poisons, I suppose,” said Hermione, sighing. “I don’t know. My father won’t talk about it. He blamed himself for a very long time.”

“It wasn’t his fault that Grindelwald wanted to use him.”

“No…it wasn’t,” Hermione frowned. “He used to hate talking about her in the years after it happened. When I went to Hogwarts, his broken heart had finally begun to heal, and he wished to relive the memories of her between us. We did…for a time. We spoke of her often, laughed at the few memories I had of her when I was a little girl. We read her favorite books together, looked at pictures, and finally boxed up her things.”

Hermione looked up, expecting Tom to appear awkward and uncomfortable at her heartfelt speech. Instead, he was looking at her without any trace of emotion other than intrigue.

“What changed?” he asked, pushing for her to continue.

“I grew up,” said Hermione, shrugging. “I went to Hogwarts and had my taste of freedom. I got to witness the wild beauty of Scotland, and I wanted to see more. I read more - about different races, nations, and cultures. It scared my father, because of what happened to my mother, and so he forbade me from leaving.”

“And you haven’t once defied him?”

“Of course, I have,” said Hermione, smiling faintly at memories of her rebellion. “At least I’ve tried to. It only makes things worse, and my father…we’re all each other has.”

Tom just nodded, stretching one arm over the back of his chair as he reclined slightly.

“I’ve tried to convince him,” Hermione continued, “I really have. He says no to every invitation: every shopping trip to Paris with Eleanor; every holiday with the Malfoy's. It only ends in a fight. It has become a routine, and one I’m tired of repeating. I can’t lose my father, and every time we fight over this, his stubbornness just divides us further.”

“You’re of age, Hermione,” said Tom firmly, a familiar air of authority creeping into his tone. “You should travel now, while you’re young, and your father should not live in fear.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she huffed. “Abraxas invited me, once again, to his family’s chateau for New Years. His _family’s_ chateau, one that is protected by magic and just a portkey away. Still, my father has said no to even that several times, and I know he will again.”

“Has Abraxas ever spoken to your father?” asked Tom in a much softer tone than before. “Have his parents? You said they know.”

“They do know, and they have spoken with him - if only to reassure him - but they wouldn’t go against my father’s wishes.”

They fell into a round of silence. Hermione used it to take deep, calming breaths. Her frustration and anger always mounted when she spoke of her father’s unfair and restrictive rules that he had long ago instilled in her personal life. Once again, it was affecting her magic, and she certainly didn’t want a repeat of earlier's bedroom destruction.

“I love my mother, and I miss her every day,” said Hermione quietly, “but I refuse to live in fear of the rest of the world like my father does.”

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. Hermione met his gaze expectantly, urging him to say what he wanted. “But you are living in fear,” he said after a moment. Hermione huffed defensively. “You are by letting your father rule your life.”

“I don’t -”

“I know you don’t want to lose him,” interrupted Tom, “but I don’t think you will.”

“You don’t understand the regret he feels,” said Hermione firmly, “the terror.”

“Grindelwald is gone. Dumbledore defeated him.”

“His followers live on! If they didn’t, maybe things would be different. But they do, and it’s not yet been three years since the duel. His followers are still out there, and that terrifies my father.”

Tom’s mouth twitched but he remained silent, looking deep in thought. Nearly a minute passed with Hermione fidgeting with her sweater uncomfortably and Tom staring contemplatively into the fire.

“I’ll talk with him,” he said finally.

“What?” asked Hermione, looking up at him, bewildered.

“Abraxas invited me to France as well for the New Year celebration. I’ll speak with your father about releasing you from captivity,” he said with a smirk.

“Release me from captivity?” Hermione snorted, but then relented with a sigh. "That is what it's beginning to feel like, though."

"Your father respects me, and I him," Tom continued. "He will at least hear what I have to say.”

“He _adores_ you,” she corrected as the topic of conversation died in the warm air around them. Hermione actually felt very grateful for his company. She hadn't a problem retelling him of her mother's mysterious death or the rocky relationship she shared with her father. In fact, he was a better listener than most because of the usual lack of emotion he brought to most conversations. There was no sadness, pity, or judgement. But he was also unafraid to be straight with her. In hindsight, Tom made her want to defy her father's unyielding stance on travel even more. He represented someone that had been oppressed in his youth - albeit in a very different way - and had overcome all. He had left the undoubtedly poor memories of his Muggle childhood behind and used his intelligence and power to write a new chapter for himself in the Wizarding world. He had taken advantage of being a free, unburdened adult, and traveled the world. Hermione wanted nothing more than to do the same. 

She glanced down to Tom's hand, which was on the arm rest of his, the quirky gold banded ring on his finger. “Tom, thank you,” she said sincerely. "For listening - I mean. And for offering to speak to my father."

He just smiled at her, held her gaze for a moment, then moved to stand. “We should get to work,” he said. “You could be the next evil sorceress of England before you even get the opportunity to travel to France for the holiday.”

Hermione laughed and stood to retrieve her wand. “When are we going to do historical research on the curse?”

“Soon - possibly Wednesday. We need a better idea of what we’re up against first, which is why tonight is going to be a very important lesson.”

Hermione nodded, intrigued, but then remembered what she wanted to ask him. “Do you think you could look through Mr. Burke’s records and see who sold him the necklace?”

Tom stilled and looked up at her from his resumed place in his chair, his elbows on his knees. “I told you Mr. Burke gained the necklace from an older woman that refused to tell him of the necklace’s powers."

“I remember,” said Hermione airily, fiddling with the emerald. “You also said that she was the last of her family line, and that she told Mr. Burke that the wearer would only discover the necklace’s power once she put it on.”

“Yes, I did,” said Tom stiffly, turning away from her to tighten his shoelace.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You also said that Mr. Burke prided himself on the sale.”

“What a spectacular memory you have, Hermione,” murmured Tom.

She hummed at his rigid reply and sat down on the end of the couch nearest to him, twirling her wand in one hand. “So, I’m sure Mr. Burke kept a well-written record of the seller’s name and address.”

Tom openly rolled his eyes as he turned to look at her. “I’m sure he did, but if you _recall_ , the woman was dying. Her address is of no use to us. She succumbed to death decades ago.”

“It could still be useful!” argued Hermione. “Her neighbors could still be there, friends of the family. If she wore this necklace and the curse affected her, I want to know the details.”

Tom sighed and sat back in his chair, throwing both arms around the back of the cushions in a way that oozed comfort and confidence. Hermione allowed herself a moment to appreciate the new position. His hair was still loose from the hours in the lab and his quick shower before dinner, and he had his sleeves rolled to his elbows elbows again - a look that Hermione was beginning to grow fond of on him. Tom crossed an ankle over his knee, which shortened his pant leg and exposed the black socks he was wearing. They had the Slytherin crest on them; part of their old school uniform. She, too, still had her own white and red striped Gryffindor ones.

“I’m not sure I can find records that date so far back,” said Tom, looking at her seriously, as if daring her not to argue.

Hermione stared at him, hard, her eyes slowly narrowing. She cocked her head to the side, examining him, before she shook her head. “You’re lying,” she accused. “Why are you trying to keep me from research that could prove more useful than anything? It could help the both of us in our lessons!”

“Because I don’t want to scare you,” hissed Tom, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“I’d rather know then not know…” trailed Hermione, pulling her legs up on the couch. Then her eyes widened, and she shot to her knees on the cushions. “You’ve already looked at the records!”

Tom’s expression remained calm and collected. “Yes.”

“When?” Hermione growled, glaring at him murderously.

“The day after your powers manifested at dinner,” said Tom haughtily. “I’m surprised you’ve just now concluded the importance of delving into the necklace's previous owner. It was the first thing _I_ thought about.”

Hermione scoffed. “Well, I’ve thought of it now,” she snapped. "And perhaps I would have brought it up sooner if you had not canceled our last lesson." She huffed in exasperation but her anger quickly dissolved into a frown. “So…the reason you know the curse is dark magic is because you discovered what happened to its last owner?” Tom nodded. “It’s why you’ve never denied that I’d be capable of harming someone if this curse consumes me.”

Tom nodded again, but Hermione squeezed her eyes shut to hide the fear in them. She averted her gaze towards the crackling fire but decided to press on. “Tell me.”

She heard him sigh, and after many moments of contemplative silence, he spoke: “I visited the address she gave in the record book. The woman living there couldn’t tell me much, only that the previous owner of the home, the owner of the necklace, was Trinity Bullock.”

“Bullock?” gasped Hermione, her eyes blown wide to look as she gaped at Tom. “As in the Dark Arts author Owle Bullock?”

“I assumed as much at the time,” he shrugged, “and upon further research, I discovered that, yes, Owle was her brother. He died five years before her, and I assume he gave her the necklace, as she was the last of his family line and neither bore children. I don’t know when she put the necklace on, but Ms. Bullock was hardly seen for the last two years of her life. She was traveling.”

“How do you know that?” pressed Hermione, who was bewildered by the story so far. Is this why Tom had offered to help her? He had spent so much time researching the necklace’s powers before she even knew of them. He had discovered the truth of the darkness concealed in it, and instead of simply warning and frighteneing her, he had offered to help her.

“I made inquiries at the Ministry. Emaex Avery works in the Investigation Department in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…” Tom trailed off, falling silent.

“And?” breathed Hermione.

Tom’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, fixing her with a heavy stare. “And…Ms. Trinity Bullock left a trail of bodies across Eastern Europe in the last two years of her life.”

Hermione froze, all but for the hand that shot up to cover her mouth.

“It perplexed the Aurors, of course,” continued Tom unflinchingly. “She was sixty years old.”

“How did she die?” Hermione managed to whisper after a tense beat of silence.

“Some Healers said she picked up the flu from one of her victims. She returned to England in her final days, sick and frail, which we can assume is when she sold the necklace. The Aurors found and questioned her only hours before she died.”

Hermione swallowed thickly. “I thought maybe she would have killed herself.”

“No. But according to the Healers and Aurors that were with her in her final days, she felt no remorse for her crimes.”

Hermione nodded slowly. That is what she meant. The woman had felt no remorse for killing countless people… How was it possible? Would it happen to her?

“But she sold the necklace,” continued Hermione. “She was able to take it off. The necklace is what is cursed, and she got rid of it, destroyed the connection between her magic and the necklace... And she _still_ felt no remorse,” said Hermione shakily. “It doesn’t matter that she took it off. It permanently damaged her morale and soul. It changed her!”

“We don’t know that,” Tom said calmly, leaning towards her. “She was the last of a family known for worshipping the Dark Arts. For all we know, it was already in her nature.”

“That doesn’t matter, don’t you see?" she asked with a furrowed brow, anxiety wrinkling her forehead. "There are bad people in this world, Tom, but not all of them are evil. Not all are capable of taking another’s life. That is something different entirely. Bad people can feel remorse; but evil people? I don't believe they can.

Tom stared at her strangely, as if he was bewildered and bored all together.

“Trinity Bullock may have been a bad person,” continued Hermione, hoping her would understand the point she was trying to make, "but she wasn’t evil before she was cursed - or else she would have killed before. No - the curse did that, just as it will to me.”

“Don't be melodramatic,” said Tom rather heartlessly. "Your situation is different from Trinity Bullock's, and her circumstances were different from those that owned the necklace before her."

Hermione found no comfort in Tom’s words, but she understood what he was trying to say. She couldn't compare herself to Trinity Bullock because they were different two different souls. If Hermione used Trinity's story as a timeline for her own future, she would drive herself mad before the curse could. Tom was - in his own, terrible description - telling her not to dwell on Trinity's Bullock's doom, because it did not need to be hers. It would not be hers. They could fix this, together.

But Hermione felt as if she was fighting a losing battle. Trinity’s story had frightened her more than any fear she had felt before. She felt as if her goodness, her light and her kindness was on the line or in question… Everything that made her _Hermione Granger_ could be destroyed in a matter of months, twisted into something dark, corruptive, and deadly. Hermione stared into the fire, a deep part of her wishing the orange flames could swallow her. Wouldn’t that be easier than taking an innocent life? What if her sanity slipped so far away, like Trinity’s, that she hurt her father, or Abraxas, or Eleanor? She couldn’t even bear the thought. It was too painful, too surreal. She couldn’t imagine that, a year from now, she could be capable of murder.

“I hope your wandless magic has improved since the last time we met,” said Tom, deciding to forego the topic of Trinity Bullock at Hermione's silence. She was suddenly in a terrible mood and wanted nothing more to dismiss Tom and their lesson, and wallow alone for the remainder of the night. It would be difficult to focus on anything but what he had just told her, but she knew she had too. If she wanted to beat down the impending rise of her murderous alter ego, she had to push herself and her magic even further.

“It has,” nodded Hermione, schooling her features into concentration. “Small advances, you know. Now that my magic seems to be cooperating _too much_ , I suspect I can improve more.”

“Good,” hummed Tom. “Tonight, we will practice resisting.”

“Resisting? Resisting what?”

“Me,” said Tom simply with a small smirk. “I will open my magic to you, and you will attempt to resist with your own.”

“That hasn’t proved useful before,” said Hermione doubtfully. If there was one thing her magic couldn’t seem to resist, it was Tom Riddle.

“That’s because you haven’t tried to repel me,” said Tom. “Don’t be tempted. Let your magic trust you and not someone or something else. The necklace feeds off dark magic. Convince it to feed off of you instead.”

Hermione nodded through her doubt and confusion. He made it sound much simpler than it was. Her necklace _did_ feed off dark magic; the curse craved it. It was why her magic, growing tainted by the curse more every day, was so attracted to Tom's affinity and knowledge of the Dark Arts. Hermione had nothing to offer her magic in return; she was too pure. She had only knowledge of the Dark Arts, but Tom had practice and experience.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” asked Tom somberly.

Hermione cocked her head to the side and tried not to appear too muddled as she looked over at him. “I think so. You want me to channel the…darkness inside of me,” she frowned, “instead of being tempted by the darkness inside of you?”

“Exactly,” hummed Tom. “Resist the outside forces: the darkness deep inside of me, inside of others, dark objects… Focus on that same darkness inside of you. This is the main aggressor the curse is forcing you to deal with: temptation." 

Hermione puffed a sigh through her nose and nodded, gripping her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"There has always been a little darkness in you, Hermione, just like me. You’ve studied the Dark Arts, even tried out a few spells, haven’t you? I could feel it the first time you bonded with your magic across from me at your dinner table.”

Hermione straightened defensively, shifting back against the couch as Tom leaned closer. “Only in my garden, which is more than I suspect you can say.”

A smirk crawled up Tom’s lips. “What do you think I practice on, Hermione? Puppies?”

She rolled her eyes towards the fireplace and glared at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to teach you, or not?” he asked derisively.

“Yes,” snapped Hermione, “I do.”

“Good,” said Tom coolly. “Then let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am forever grateful for you, my awesome readers!! The comments on the last chapter were some of my favorite to read so far! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this quick update! It's still very long, and I absolutely loved the Tom/Hermione in this chapter! We finally learned wtf is up with Hermione's private life and learned some more about that damn curse. What did you guys think? 
> 
> I'll keep it short today. You MAY expect chapter 10 up within the next week as it is already halfway finished :) Love you all!! xx El


	10. Tortured Souls

The next two weeks passed quickly, as Hermione busied herself with work, her research, and lessons with Tom Riddle. Their new schedule seemed to work. Tom would meet her outside of Secondhand Tomes at seven o’clock on Wednesdays and they would walk together to his apartment in Diagon Alley. On Sundays, Tom would sneak up to Hermione’s room after his potions apprenticeship. Since the Sunday after the Granger’s disastrous argument over dessert, Hector had not dared to ask Tom to stay for dinner. They had made strides with their improved Dragonpox cure, but Hector was still too ashamed of Hermione’s outburst to invite Tom to stay.

The meals between Hermione and her father had been uncomfortable in the following days. When Hector made a snarky remark to remind Hermione exactly _why_ they did not have company on a Sunday evening, she had pushed away her plate and retired to her room. She found great pleasure in finding Tom Riddle sprawled on her couch, reading her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ , when she returned. She was only upset that she had missed him climbing up to her window for the first time, but as Tom quickly corrected her, he was too powerful and great for such a measly task and, therefore, had levitated himself to her balcony instead.

Their lessons had proved somewhat productive. Hermione’s magic had fully bonded with her now, Tom had deduced. She had full control of it except for when dark magic was involved. Tom’s own magic was proof of that, but he had also brought some cursed objects from Borgin and Burkes to test their theory. But her magic reacted to her, now, which was an improvement. She could feel it constantly when she was angry, confused, happy, or sad. The only problem was controlling it amidst stronger emotions. She had not lost control since her outburst in front of her father and Tom, but the memory of it unnerved her. The anger she had felt against her father that night was justified, but the malice she felt for him was frightening.

The idea that her curse was changing her magic, and worse, changing _her_ , was enough to put Hermione in a constant state of fear and depression. What disheartened her most was the lack of progression she and Tom were making towards finding a way to break the curse. Indeed, they had made strides in understanding and controlling Hermione's newfound magic, but their research into Trinity Bullock and other previous owners had turned up empty. In fact, Trinity Bullock seemed to be the only recorded wearer of the emerald necklace at all, and she certainly had not found a way to break the curse. Tom theorized that perhaps the necklace had been passed down the Bullock family line, or that Trinity's brother Owle, who had gifted his sister the necklace, had cursed it himself. Therefore, Trinity was the only evidence of what the necklace could do. Hermione had spent five days straight researching alternatives, seeing if the necklace had appeared before in Dark Arts tomes or history books, but there was nothing. She had even written to Abraxas to inquire about serial murders in the last century through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Like Tom, Abraxas had used Emaex Avery as a contact in the Investigation Department, but there had been no evidence of cases like Trinity Bullock's, nor had there been any trace or rumor of a cursed necklace in any reports. Everything was a dead end, it seemed, and so Hermione and Tom simply continued to prepare her for the growing threat that was her strengthening and shifting magic. It made her feel as if there was no progress being made at all, because if she couldn’t stop the necklace poisoning her magic, wasn’t it really all for naught?

Hermione tried to distract herself from her impending doom. She worked hard at the bookstore, went to watch Alfyn and Abraxas play in the last Ministry of Magic Quidditch League match of the season, and had tea with Cedrella (who was very interested to know if anything had happened between Hermione and Abraxas at the ball). She had not told Cedrella anything yet - about the curse or Tom Riddle. Cedrella was a good friend, but she was a decade older than Hermione and had much more on her plate. She was getting married soon and had a full-time job, not to mention the constant drama with her estranged family. Hermione decided she would only confide in Cedrella if she found any alarming proof into Tom Riddle's true character.

She was straddling a fine line between enjoying Tom's company and acknowledging her distrust of him. He had done an excellent job so far of distracting her with his charm, generosity, and delightful conversation, but Hermione refused to forget the great crescendo in her suspicion that had itched at her conscience since the Hallowe'en Ball. Seeing Tom with his friends - especially witnessing the peculiar way they had treated him - had brought her back down to earth, back to her old reservations.

Along with the research she conducted in private about the curse, she had begun her promised attempts to snoop into Tom Riddle's personal life. Over a month ago - thought after Hermione had put together the pieces herself - Tom had admitted that he was a Parselmouth. The rare trait was normally an alarming sign in the Wizarding world, and so Hermione thought it a good place to start. She had checked the small library at her own home, hoping to chase her theory about famous Parselmouth's in history and Tom's heritage but came up with nothing. Secondhand Tomes had been next, where she had found a small dictionary of Parseltongue phrases, but nothing more. She did, however, find a book at Flourish and Blotts that sealed her wonderings about the strange language: Parseltongue could be learned, yes, but it was impossible to master it unless it was a natural ability. Even if one came close to fluency, they would never have the same connections with serpentine creatures like a natural Parselmouth would. Like Tom did, based on his history of pets. 

Next, Hermione had penned an owl to Alfyn Lestrange. His family’s manor had a well-stocked library of its own. There, she found a biography about Salazar Slytherin that had proved interesting, but perhaps not helpful. Still, Hermione decided to go with her gut feeling, which was to continue researching the most infamous Parselmouth in Great Britain to date - the founder of Hogwarts. Hermione found nothing but biographies about Salazar Slytherin, which mostly told her nothing she did not know already. Mostly, she was interested in the great wizard's family lineage, as well as family trees of other Parselmouth's in European history. Without the knowledge of Tom's maternal pure-blood line, Hermione had limited evidence to juggle. After over two weeks, there were only two remaining libraries she had not explored yet: Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor. The library at Malfoy Manor was not nearly as big as Hogwarts but more than likely had a whole shelf dedicated to Salazar Slytherin and the snake language. Hermione was certain Abraxas had mentioned an ancestor or two that carried the trait, and the Malfoy library had a very extensive section of ancestral journals and unpublished auto-biographies.

The only problem was that Hermione was avoiding Abraxas. Along with the endless topics of research, her mounting - albeit conflicting - feelings about her best friend had kept her plenty occupied since the ball. Because of it, she hadn’t wanted to face him for days. She had seen him at the Ministry Quidditch match and once more in Diagon Alley when he was having tea with his mother, but all they had managed were a few exchanged words, averted gazes and blushed cheeks, and friendly waves.

Before parting ways after the ball and after-party drinks in Abraxas's quarters, they had promised to reach out to one another soon. At the time, Hermione had been eager - though nervous - to see him again so soon after their almost-kiss. And yet, neither had reached out for days. But finally, two days ago, Hermione had plucked up the courage and sent him an owl. Abraxas was coming over to visit today.

She was working the morning shift at Secondhand Tomes and planned to meet him back at her home in the afternoon. It had been quiet and boring all morning, and as lunch approached, Hermione was growing quite tired. She had only seen a few customers all day, and two of them still remained reading inside. Hermione was down on the first floor restocking returned books when her boss Robert Ross arrived to relieve her.

“Hermione! All is well I hope?” said Robert, grinning widely at her. He tossed his bag behind the counter and joined her between the shelves.

“Just the same as Wednesday,” sighed Hermione, smiling over her shoulder at him. “I thought Mindy was working today?”

“We switched shifts. She was here yesterday instead. Oh! I saw your friend in here again…Mr. Riddle?

“Tom?” said Hermione in surprise, nearly dropping the book she was levitating to the highest shelf.

“That’s the one,” said Robert. “He’s a very nice young lad.”

Hermione tried not to laugh at the irony. “Yes…the sweetest,” she said between her teeth.

She wondered how often Tom came in when she wasn’t working. He knew her schedule, and apparently came in enough that Robert knew his name. She had not seen him in the bookstore since she got the job, other than when he picked her up for Wednesday lessons. She wondered why he was purposefully coming by when she wasn't working, as if he was avoiding her shifts. Strangely enough, it sort of bothered her. They met twice a week now. Would it be so terrible to see her more? 

“He loves his books, that Tom,” continued Robert. “Reminds me a bit of you. No wonder you two are friends.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” murmured Hermione, picking up the box of returned books from the floor.

“Oh?” cooed her nosy boss, who had become rather like a fun uncle figure. “More than friends then?”

Hermione, embarrassed, pushed past Robert. “No,” she hissed. “And even if we were, I wouldn’t tell you!” His hearty laugh echoed behind her as she scurried towards the stairs. “I’ll just put these up and get out of your way.” 

She shook her head with an amused smile as she climbed the iron staircase to the loft. One of the customers that came in earlier to read, a young woman around her age, was sitting in a plush chair in the corner. She looked up when Hermione walked past, and they exchanged a small smile before Hermione disappeared behind a bookshelf. She returned several household charms books to their rightful shelf before moving to the next one, _'Herbology Basics: A Guide to a Medicinal Garden'_. Eager to go home, Hermione took out her wand and levitated the remaining books to their rightful places. She vanished the box and began straightening a few books that were out of order.

“You’re friends with Tom Riddle?”

Hermione jumped and turned to look down the aisle. The blonde woman that she had passed reading in the corner was standing a few strides from her, looking timid.

“Um…of sorts,” Hermione replied slowly.

“You need to be careful, Hermione,” the girl said in a soft Irish accent. 

“How do you - ”

“Don’t trust Tom Riddle. He’s not who he seems.” Her green eyes were wide, pleading.

Hermione could feel her frustration mounting in equal measure to her curiosity and suspicion. “I don’t know how you know me or Tom," said Hermione, "but I’m not as dumb as you clearly think.”

“Don’t get close to him,” the girl warned again.

“Stop being cryptic,” pleaded Hermione with a firm edge. “Do you know something about Tom? If you do, please tell me.” The girl shook her head and Hermione’s anxiety grew at the fear reflected in the girl's pale green eyes. “I don’t trust him either,” she whispered, stepping closer. “If you know something that I should, you must tell me.”

The girl looked torn for a moment but motioned her closer towards the corner. Hermione didn’t hesitate. This was her chance to learn more about Tom and what he could be hiding. Even more, this poor girl looked scared to death, which meant she knew something of purpose.

“You have to promise to say nothing to Tom,” hissed the girl. “He can’t know I’m even the slightest bit suspicious.”

Hermione’s interest grew as the girl fidgeted with her fingers and shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Do I know you?” she asked tentatively. “You look...almost familiar.”

“I was a year above you at school,” said the blonde. “I was in Slytherin. We never spoke.”

Hermione nodded once as understanding dawned. “So, you must have known Tom then.”

The girl's bottom lip trembled. “Too well, I think…”

“Tell me,” Hermione pushed softly. “You have my word that I won’t say anything to him.” Indeed, she wouldn’t dream of it. This was her chance to figure out if Tom really was who he said he was, or if her gut feeling that his story didn’t add up was right after all. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as the girl twisted the end of her sweater in her hands nervously.

“Tom and I…we used to…to meet up a few times at Hogwarts. In private...” she whispered shamefully.

Hermione immediately caught onto what the girl was insinuating. She stiffened unconsciously and felt her cheeks flush. On the surface, she was discomforted by the sexual insinuation. Deep down, something darker and uncharacteristically unlike Hermione made her unfairly judge and dislike the innocent woman in front of her, simply because it was Tom to whom she was implying. She felt her magic bubble, provoked by the Slytherin girl’s story.

“I was such a fool…” the girl whispered to herself and Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow, quietly agreeing while only feeling a little pity. “Don’t think poorly of me. We did many things, but we never had sex. One night, I finally decided I wanted to take things further. Tom was such a gentleman…he didn’t pressure or push me to do anything I didn’t want to. I figured he wanted what all men want in the end, so I snuck out of the dungeons past curfew to send him an owl that would tell him to meet me the next night. We didn’t have any classes together since he was older, so I never saw him. I always sent him a note when I wanted to meet. But this time I never reached the Owlery.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione cut in.

“I couldn’t tell you if I knew,” shuddered the girl. “I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up the next morning remembering that I got caught by Tom himself in the dungeons. He told me he wasn't in the mood, that he would write to me when he wanted to meet next. I returned to the common room and went back to bed.”

“Ok…” trailed Hermione, growing irritated. “I don’t understand.”

“I woke up in pain,” she continued. “My muscles twitched uncontrollably; my speech was impaired for hours.”

Hermione knew she was gaping as a cold rush of fear left the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “But those are symptoms of the Cruciatus Curse.”

The girl nodded, looking traumatized. “But I have no memory of being cursed,” she said, her eyes watering. “Sometimes, when I dream, I hear screams, but they don’t sound like mine… I see Tom Riddle looking less of a human and more of a monster, his eyes so dark they look like black empty holes, his face twisted into something so terrifying, so evil, that I wake up in tears.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. Her mind was racing, and her distrust of Tom momentarily left her ears buzzing, as if everything in the world faded away for a moment.

“I feel like I have a hole in my memory. I remember Tom stopping me on my way to the Owlery. He smiled; he was charming and kissed me goodnight after he escorted me back to the common room. It's clear as clear as day but it also feels like a dream at times - like I dreamed it rather than lived it. But nothing else adds up. ”

“Did you confront him?” asked Hermione.

“No." She shook her head rapidly. “I never thought I had a reason to until that memory grew to be…less like a memory. And then I began to think perhaps I wasn't sick when I woke up the next morning after all. I'm studying to become a Healer's assistant, and about a year I came across a book that described the short and long-term symptoms of the Cruciatus... It wasn't until then that..."

"That you became suspicious of Tom," concluded Hermione. The blonde girl nodded, taking a deep breath. Hermione's mind was racing to conclusions and building theories so fast that she thought they might be visible to any onlooker, like her eyes were a window into her soul.

"Tom never spoke to me again," the girl began again. "I _did_ try to confront him about that, but I could never get him alone. He just ignored me - like we never existed. Of course, we were never really an item, so…” 

Hermione simply stared at the frightened girl in front of her and ran her fingers through her curls. 

“You’re very bright, Hermione. I remember that. I think I know what happened to me, and I think you do too."

Hermione nodded, showing her understanding.

"I think Tom covered up what really happened to me, and I just have this feeling that he was the cause of those tremors and my strange memories. It just doesn’t feel real enough anymore, and I’m no fool.” 

Hermione swallowed thickly and nodded again. “I believe you.”

“I should go now," said the girl, throwing a cloak around her shoulders. "I heard your boss insinuate you and Tom were more than friends and I...I just felt like I needed to tell you. I guess I was reminded of my naivety back then. Just be careful of befriending Tom. Don’t make the same mistakes I did by getting close to him.”

Hermione stared blankly at the girl, stunned and unnerved by the new information. Had Tom really cursed this poor girl? What else was he hiding? Every assumption she had ever made about him swam back to the surface. Surely it was true that he dabbled in the Dark Arts. The use of the Cruciatus Curse on an innocent girl was evidence. What had she seen to provoke such a reaction from him? What had she learned?

Despite the literal holes in the girl's story, Hermione believed her. If there was anything Hermione trusted the most, it was her gut and her mind. She had long ago raised red flags over Tom’s head: at Hogwarts; the day they became reacquainted in Hector Granger's study; the moment she felt the peculiar darkness in his magic. After the account of alleged torture and purposeful memory loss, those red flags had turned into alarm bells. It didn't matter that Hermione had begun to enjoy his company, respect him as a powerful wizard, and adore the moments of intellectual bliss they spent in discussing this book or that theory. She didn’t know him, not really. This was evidence of the real Tom, and it scared her just as much as the fate of her curse. He was comfortable with _torturing_ a fellow student, a girl that he had been intimate with. That made him unpredictable. Deadly. 

Hermione scurried out of Secondhand Tomes mere moments after the traumatized blonde. She refused to even give away her name for fear that Tom would discover her suspicions of their encounter at Hogwarts. Hermione was grateful to reach the Floo in the Leaky Cauldron. She spun away in flames of green as the girl’s words echoed in her mind: _“Don’t make the same mistakes I did by getting close to him.”_

She stumbled, frazzled, into the parlor of her home. She was immediately aggravated to see Abraxas and her father sitting down with tumblers of firewhiskey. Abraxas had arrived early, it seemed, which left Hermione no time to compose herself.

Both men stood immediately upon her arrival.

“How was work, dear?” asked Hector, taking her traveling cloak from her arms.

“Fine,” mumbled Hermione, giving her father a small smile before kissing Abraxas on the cheek. He looked handsome as always in pleated, plaid gray pants and a navy shirt that had enough buttons undone to catch Hermione’s interest.

“Hi,” she whispered as she dropped back on her heels in front of him, smiling shyly..

All previous worries of any lingering awkwardness between them from Hallowe'en dispersed the moment Abraxas shot her his usual, goofy smile.

“What are you two kids up to today?” asked Hector, sitting back down with his whisky. 

“Just catching up, father,” said Hermione through a tired sigh.

“’Mione is filling me in on her medical runes project,” lied Abraxas easily. Hermione shot him a grateful look.

“Oh, yes. You need to update your old father soon. You’ve been so preoccupied with it this last month.”

“Sure,” Hermione replied shortly, knowing she would have to improvise on the subject at a later date to keep her father off her trail. Pulling on Abraxas’s sleeve, she made a move towards the door. “We’ll be upstairs.”

Abraxas bid his polite thanks and goodbyes and followed her out of the parlor and towards the stairs, tripping on a red Persian rug as she pulled him along. She steered him towards the stairs until Abraxas shrugged out of her grip with a small huffing complaint that he did, in fact, know how to get to her bedroom without help.

“You two seem…tense,” he said quietly, nodding his head back towards the parlor as they disappeared onto the second floor.

“We are,” said Hermione. “We got into a fight about my mum when Tom Riddle, of all people, was having dinner with us.”

“That’s awkward,” mumbled Abraxas, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sure he had a lot to say about that.”

“Oh yes,” snorted Hermione. “I ended up filling him in on everything that he didn’t _already_ know.” She shot him a knowing look and Abraxas smiled bashfully.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Tom asked, but I only told him what most already know - ”

Hermione waved him off. “Don’t worry. He could just as easily have read about it in an old Daily Prophet. ”

As soon as they arrived in her bedroom, Abraxas moved towards the seating area and lit a fire while Hermione kicked off her boots in the closet.

“Are these some of the books you’re researching for your curse?” called Abraxas. He was holding the book Tom had gifted to her and was flipping through the pages. Hermione had scribbled in it mercilessly.

“Yes. It was very helpful to understand the types of bonding magic, but is really no use with the breaking the curse,” she said, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Any news on that front?” asked Abraxas, setting the book back down on the coffee table and leaning back into the cushions.

Hermione debriefed him on everything that had occurred in the weeks since the ball. She told him how the curse was beginning to affect her more, leaving her with mood swings and inexplicable urges for something _more_. She explained how her magic was finally beginning to bond with her again and react in time with her own emotions instead of on its own accord. Abraxas seemed worried when she explained that this was probably not a good sign. She recanted her outbursts of magic since discovering the new bond with her magic: the minor reaction to Walburga Black, Sophia Parkinson, and Aveus Nott's careless nagging after the ball; and the major outburst her father had caused over two weeks ago that resulted in shatter wine glasses and a destroyed bedroom.

She detailed the new research she and Tom had conducted, too - hesitantly so about the necklace's effects on its last owner, Trinity Bullock. Abraxas seemed horrified by the path Trinity had taken because of the curse, and the truth seemed to hit Hermione even harder at his reaction. She wondered, again, how many of her loved ones would be affected by her curse in the near future. 

For a moment, she felt so ashamed at the prospect of becoming someone so evil, dangerous and blood-hungry, that she could barely look Abraxas in the eye. But then he shifted towards her and wrapped his arms around her. Hermione had never been more grateful for her best friend as she hugged him back, releasing the tension of what had become a very long and emotionally difficult day.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Mione,” Abraxas whispered over and over again into her hair. Hermione felt tears pricking her eyes and felt no shame whatsoever as she curled up against his side, eyes welling with tears.

He continued offering words of comfort as she cried into his chest. She rarely cried. Hermione could perhaps count eight times she had cried since her mother's death. Lately, the urge to do so had tightened her throat and stung her eyes on multiple occasions, but she had been successful in fighting it off. The last two weeks had been harder as she began feeling herself slipping on a downwards slope. It was simply that the curse was constantly on her mind. She would change in the mornings, or step out of the shower in the evenings, and in the mirror, she would be nude all but for her necklace. It was _always_ on, tightly clasped around her neck, the emerald pendant encased in diamonds on a gleaming silver chain, falling heavy against the dip in her collarbone. A constant, painful reminder that her life was no longer normal. The skin beneath the clasp was becoming red and raw because she had tried so many times to pull it off by force - something that was becoming a daily habit.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione hiccuped, lifting her streaked face from Abraxas’s shoulder.. She wiped at his neck and the stained collar of his shirt, which was wet with her tears.

“Sometimes we just need a good cry,” said Abraxas with a chuckle, running his fingers through her hair with one hand and continuing to rub her back with his other. “When’s the last time you had a full night of sleep?”

Hermione sat up and wiped at her eyes. Her nose was running, her eyes felt tired and puffy, and her lips were chapped. Still, Abraxas looked down on her as if nothing was different, a small smile on his face.

“Weeks,” she croaked. “It’s been weeks.”

Abraxas sighed and rubbed her back, his arms still wrapped around her. “Remember that time I fell asleep on your lap after we stayed up for hours prepping for my Ministry presentation?”

Hermione smiled up at him, recalling the memory. “Yes - and I finished revising it for you while you slept," she chuckled. "But you did very well the next day, I remember. It's what got you that promotion - you're welcome by the way. But you did drool all over my dress.”

Abraxas made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. “I did not!” Hermione smirked knowingly. “Fine,” he huffed, “I did. But the point was that you let me take a nap on your lap when I needed one. So, c’mon.”

He started pulling her down onto his chest and Hermione swatted at him. “Brax, no! I hate - ”

“ - taking naps, I know,” he snorted. “But you need it, and I’m here to make sure you get it. Just an hour?”

The prospect was a nice one. The many nights of only six or so hours of sleep had caught up to her days ago, so Hermione relented and let Abraxas settle on his back before laying down next to him. His arms stayed cocooned around her as she laid her head on his chest. After shifting around for a minute, they got comfortable. Hermione was vaguely aware that this was very different from the time he had fallen asleep with his head on her thigh. This was cuddling, but it also felt nice. She did not quite know what to do with her hands, so she opted to boldly splay one across chest while the other stayed stuck between their torsos. By the speed of his racing heart, Abraxas could sense the tension in their actions, too. 

“I was nervous about today,” Hermione admitted into the silence a few minutes later. She looked up to see Abraxas already looked down at her through his lashes. “I thought it would be awkward.”

“Because you tried to kiss me?” he asked seriously, but the twitch of his lips gave away his joking undertone.

Hermione scoffed, pinching his side where she knew he was the most ticklish. “You tried to kiss me!” she protested.

Abraxas just laughed. “I also thought today would be weird,” he continued several moments later, “but it isn’t, is it?”

“No,” said Hermione, hiding her smile in his chest. “I’m glad of it.”

She could feel Abraxas’s eyes on the top of her head. “Me too,” he whispered. “Not sure it could ever be awkward between us, though.”

Hermione responded with a yawn, softly nodding her head in agreement. She felt Abraxas tracing a pattern between her shoulder blades and felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. It felt natural, her friendship with Abraxas; it always had. But their actions felt intimate now. It scared her in an anxious sort of way, and yet exhilarated her at the same. 

It was with this resolution that Hermione slung her arm around Abraxas’s waist, forgot her worries about their relationship, Tom Riddle, and the girl's story from the shop, and finally drifted into a dreamless, restful slumber.

The sunlight peeping through her curtains wasn’t as bright when she woke again. Her eyes remained closed as she silently took in her surroundings. She remembered falling asleep on the couch with Abraxas. His chest was moving slowly beneath her, his arms loose around her waist. There was a pressure on the top of her head, as if his cheek was resting there. Her arm was resting on top of his chest and the collar of his shirt was held in a tight fist. If that wasn’t enough, she noticed her leg was wrapped around one of his, her knee bent across his thighs and her socked foot tucked under his calf. She felt a blush rapidly heating every inch of skin from the neck up.

They had always been rather comfortable and playful around each other; he would throw his arms around her shoulder, lay his head in her lap, or stretch their legs across each other's laps. But again, this was very different. Hermione wanted to pull away with the fear that they were moving too fast, but she couldn't bring herself to. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she was relaxed and comfortable.

But perhaps it would be better if she, at the very least, untangled them, lest Abraxas wake up feeling unnerved by their compromising position. Hermione began to loosen her grip on his collar when she felt his arm shift against her back and heard what sounded like the turning page of a book. She froze. He was awake, and yet he hadn’t made a move to unravel them. 

Hermione chewed her lip for a solid minute, until she was sure her flush had disappeared, and then opened her eyes. Her forehead was warm against the skin of his neck which she had apparently tucked into, and her curled fingers were in her line of sight, wrinkling the fabric of his silk navy shirt. He had a few buttons undone, but her grip forced the lapels of his shirt farther apart, revealing the pale skin of his muscled chest. She swallowed thickly. The amount of times had she seen him shirtless before were countless, so why did it affect her now? This was certainly the first time she had ever desired to dip her fingers under his shirt and trace the sinew of his pale skin.

“I know you’re awake,” mumbled Abraxas in her curls.

Hermione shifted back into the couch cushions, giving her enough space to look up at him. He was reading. His arms were around her waist and back, but his wand was in his hand, levitating and flipping through _Ancient Runes: The Essence of Bonding Magic_. She raised her brows curiously, trying to focus on anything but how nice his hair looked so disheveled.

“Thought I’d read more into your situation,” said Abraxas, answering her thoughts. “This stuff is kind of interesting, though the narrative is boring as fuck. I sort of want to try out this runic blood ritual and bond with my own magic. What do you think?”

Hermione snorted and sat up, untangling their legs. She didn’t know what to make of them cuddling let alone their faces being mere inches apart on the couch pillow. She crossed her legs like a pretzel and tried to prove that she wasn’t nervous at all by letting her knee rest on his torso.

“I think you don’t want any part of bonding magic,” she replied. “Not sure I’ll ever study or have interest in it again if I break this curse.”

Abraxas hummed and set the book and his wand on the coffee table. Hermione covered a large yawn with her mouth and ran a hand through her hair that surely looked ghastly.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, squinting towards her balcony window.

“Three hours,” said Abraxas nonchalantly, folding his arms behind his head.

“Three hours?” gasped Hermione. “Why would you let me sleep that long?”

“I fell asleep too. When I woke up, you looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you yet.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head into her hands, rubbing at her eyes. While she had the opportunity of hiding behind her fingers, she decided to say, “I’m sorry for falling asleep on you like that.”

Two hands pulled her own away from her embarrassed grimace. Abraxas was smiling. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t exactly stop you,” he said bashfully.

Hermione decided to change the subject before she could give herself an opportunity to react to his words. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“I can’t. I’ve got some department function to go to tonight.”

“Oh,” cooed Hermione. “A night with the wizened wizards of International Magical Cooperation.”

Abraxas huffed. “Don’t remind me. It should be dreadfully boring. I’d much rather sit down to a tense dinner with you and your father.”

Hermione grinned. “We can switch places then. I’d much rather go to a work function and discuss international relations and politics.”

“It’s only interesting sometimes,” said Abraxas, running a hand down his tired face.

“You’re only saying that. You love your job, smarty pants.”

Abraxas smirked. “I love it sometimes. Law is tedious.”

They fell quiet, Hermione staring into the fire while Abraxas openly stared at her. They still had much to talk about, but it wouldn’t be an easy conversation. They had, of course, never talked about _them_. They had had their fights as friends of course, the biggest one being when Abraxas had ignored her throughout his fifth, sixth, and seventh year at Hogwarts. Still, their confrontations were as friends, nothing more. Hermione wasn’t sure what they were anymore, but she knew she wanted to find out. At this point, she was open to anything.

In the last month, there were two men who she couldn’t get out of her mind: Abraxas Malfoy and Tom Riddle. Both were handsome, intelligent, charming, and witty in their own ways. They were also very different. Abraxas was a classic beauty. His pale hair and skin were stark contrasts to his striking light blue eyes. His features were sharp, long and pointed, and his smile lit up a room. He was sarcastic, easy going, and one of the kindest souls Hermione had ever known. Tom, on the other hand was a rare beauty. His features were chiseled and hard. There was no softness to him on the outside, but Hermione had seen glimpses of it in stolen, private moments. His deep blue eyes, so much darker than her best friend’s, squinted at the corners when he laughed. His dry humor was a rare gift, but he was suggestive and quick to make a surprisingly witty comment when he wanted to. But he was a shapeshifter. His emotions were all over the place, leaving Hermione constantly wary and on her toes. He could go from amused to stony-faced in mere seconds. He was the most brilliant person she had ever met, though. His intelligence oozed around him like lava, and his talent was unquestionable. He was a powerful man, and he knew it. His confidence was attractive in the way he carried himself, but when he came across as condescending, which was often, it made Hermione feel inferior. He challenged her, and Hermione had always liked being challenged. It was rare that she was. Abraxas’s intelligence with law surprised her sometimes, and they debated politics often, but no one could debate academia like Tom could.

She hated that she even compared the two. Abraxas was the light and Tom was the dark. Abraxas was kind, and Tom cruel. Comparing them was pointless. There was no comparison. Tom simply wasn’t an option, not after what the anonymous girl in _Secondhand Tomes_ had told her today. Abraxas was good, gentle, and handsome. Tom was evil.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Abraxas.

Hermione looked over at him. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. She didn’t know why she was thinking of any of it, and it certainly didn’t make sense to her.

“Bet I could guess.”

Hermione smiled down at him shyly. “Probably,” she mumbled.

Abraxas sighed, lifting up slightly to thread his fingers together before folding them behind his head again. Hermione allowed herself a moment to appreciate the muscles in his arms. He still played beater in the Ministry Quidditch league and it clearly kept him in shape despite his busy work schedule.

“We should just talk about it,” said Abraxas, looking truly nervous for the first time all day.

Hermione fiddled awkwardly with her necklace, then the sleeve of her blouse.

“Maybe,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Or…maybe we can just…not talk about it?” Abraxas frowned and moved to sit up and protest, but Hermione placed a firm hand on his chest. “Maybe you can just take me out one night next week and we can just forget about it and see how things go,” she said in a quivering voice.

Abraxas’s light blue eyes widened, and his grin was so wide that his dimples popped on his cheeks. He sat up, taking her hand in his.

“Are you serious?” he breathed in disbelief.

Hermione squeezed his hand and gave a shy smile of her own. “I’m serious,” she said. “I’m not sure, but I’m serious.”

“I’m not sure either,” chuckled Abraxas. “I just know that I feel something really strong for you, ‘Mione, and I want to find out what it is.”

Hermione felt as if her heart was in her throat. _Strong feelings,_ he had said. She wasn’t sure what that meant for either of them; she wasn’t even sure what it was she felt, but she knew she owed it to Abraxas and herself - to her younger self even - to try.

“Me too,” she replied tentatively. “I’m just…confused lately.”

Abraxas sighed, his smile fading. “About Tom?”

Hermione looked at him so quickly that her neck popped. “What makes you say that?” she asked, aghast.

“I thought he was interested in you,” said Abraxas nonchalantly, “and so I wondered if you were interested in him as well. No one else stands a chance once Tom has staked his claim.”

His words rubbed her the wrong way. _Staked his claim?_ It sounded like something Tom would do. Hermione briefly wondered if he ever ‘ _staked his claim’_ on the poor tortured girl he was involved with at school.

“Tom isn’t interested in me,” said Hermione firmly. The words left a bad taste in her mouth.

“I think he is,” said Abraxas, “but not for the reasons I originally thought. I was wary of his intentions once, I admitted that to you, but that was mainly because I thought he was only helping you because he wanted to…well _you know._ He’s asked me about you, of course, but he knows the rumors about us. I’m certain he knows I care for you beyond friendliness. Still, he’s encouraged me towards you more than he has discouraged it. If he wanted you, he would have told me to back off by now.”

Hermione scoffed, gaping at her best friend. “You talk as if he has every ounce of control over you. He should have _no_ right to tell you to back off. In the end, it’s about my feelings, and I can assure you I have _none_ for him.”

Abraxas looked uncomfortable. “H-He doesn’t control me. I don’t know why I worded it like that… But I’m glad you don’t have feelings for him. Too many women - shit, too many of my friends - have feelings for him.”

“I’m not Walburga or Sophia or any of those ninnies, if that’s what you mean,” said Hermione, disgruntled. “I’m appreciative of Tom’s help, and I think he is brilliant, but he is also secretive and has a loose morale. I don’t trust him as you or Alfyn do…” Hermione trailed, purposefully leaving her statement open for interpretation.

She wanted Abraxas to be able to tell her anything about Tom that could be helpful in her task. She knew he was a loyal friend to her and believed that he would tell her if she really was in danger by associating with Tom. He had given no warnings; he knew just as she did that Tom was a Parselmouth that studied the Dark Arts. It wasn’t enough to satisfy Hermione, but perhaps Abraxas truly didn’t know any more than she did. Or…was Abraxas not allowed to say more? Was telling her anything at all his way of warning her? It would certainly explain why he was hesitant to comment any time she mentioned Tom. But why not tell her, his best friend, if he knew something incriminating against Tom? Hermione worried that Abraxas was more loyal to Tom than he was to her.

“Let’s not talk about Tom,” said Abraxas quickly, only furthering her suspicions, “not when you’ve just agreed to go on a date with me.” His grin returned and he pulled Hermione closer to him, if that was possible. She was still sitting next to him on the couch, facing him in her cross-legged position. “I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world.”

Hermione giggled but nearly choked on the melodious sound when Abraxas lifted hesitant fingers and tucked a string of loose curls behind her ear.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to tell you how I felt,” he whispered, tugging on her hair like he used to when they were children. He released it with a small smile, as if thinking of the same memories as she, and it bounced back into place.

“How long?” she asked timidly, her eyes flitting all over his face. He was so close. She could see specks of silver in his eyes, the light shadow of sparse facial hair around his chin.

“Since the beginning of summer,” he said with a chuckle, as if laughing at himself. “I was such a coward, though.”

“You _were_ very nervous to ask me to the ball,” said Hermione, recalling the day he asked her in Diagon Alley, stuttering and shy.

“You have no idea,” he snorted. “It was the first time I was asking you to an event where I didn’t think of you as just a friend.”

“I was quite nervous leading up to it as well,” she admitted. “The pressures of everyone thinking we should be together made me question my feelings for you. Cedrella Black and Alfyn and Eleanor would talk about you and I would turn into this blushing mess,” she chortled. “I started wondering what it would be like if you and I…”

Abraxas smiled as she trailed off, but it was somewhat forced. He shifted up against the pillows. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to give us a shot just because everyone thinks we should be together.”

Hermione immediately felt guilty and shook her head firmly, squeezing his hand that was still intwined with hers. “I don’t,” she said earnestly. “I genuinely want to know.”

“Your twelve-year-old self definitely did,” smirked Abraxas.

“Oh, hush. Don’t remind me of my pining.”

Abraxas laughed and brushed his free hand down her arm. “I genuinely want to know as well,” he said more seriously. “I’ve always thought you were beautiful, ‘Mione, the _most_ beautiful. I don’t know…one day things just changed. We would visit together and suddenly I couldn’t stop staring at you. I would get this strange feeling when you laughed or smiled or touched me - usually to smack me, though - and I just wanted more.”

Hermione was at a loss for words. Never had a boy - _a man_ \- spoken to her like this. She felt giddy, like she did in her Hogwarts days when she harbored a new crush on an older boy. She was briefly reminded of her fifth-year crush on the Head Boy, but even then, she had thought Tom Riddle quite the entitled arse, and it was more of a blinding attraction than a ‘giddy feeling’. Abraxas made her feel all of that and more, just like he had when she was young. He brought out the girlish daydreams and pink blushes, the special feeling of wanting to be adored and taken care of.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Hermione honestly.

Abraxas wasn’t offended. He smiled and pulled his knees to his chest. “You don’t have to say anything. I know this is newer to you than it is to me. I don’t want to ruin things between us, and I definitely don’t want it to be weird, so we’ll just take it at our own pace, ok?”

“You don’t have all the time in the world, though, do you. The deal with your father, remember? You have to find a bride by your birthday next summer or he’ll find one for you.”

Abraxas scowled openly and Hermione felt bad for reminding him of the cruel compromise. “I’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” he said. “I’d rather spend this time with you and have it lead nowhere than spend it with someone that I’ll be forced to be wed to.”

Hermione grinned and mimicked his position, pulling her knees to her chest. She knocked his leg with hers playfully. “You’re sweeter this way.”

He snorted and pushed her back, knocking her leg so hard that she fell sideways against the tall couch cushions. She scowled at him playfully, mentally taking back her compliment.

“Anyways, I know that any arranged marriage won’t be with you. You’re lucky to not be the male heir of a noble pureblood family in that regard.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Abraxas returned her smile but seemed deep in thought. Would Abraxas be forced to marry a girl he didn’t care for, arranged by his parents? She didn’t want to hold him back from finding someone in the meantime, because they were both so unsure about their feelings for each other, but it was his choice in the end. It was his life and future, and he wanted to spend the present moments with her. Hermione wondered, briefly, what it would be like to be married to Abraxas Malfoy. She thought she may be cut out to be Abraxas’s wife, who was kind, carefree, loyal, and honest. But was she cut out to be a _Malfoy_ wife? There was a difference that, as his best friend, she understood. His family worked much different than hers.

“Everyone is going to have a field day if they know we’re together,” said Hermione after a few moments.

“Especially our parents.”

“Especially the _Daily Prophet_ ,” said Hermione. “The most eligible bachelor in wizarding England and you’re going to settle for a Granger? It’s not exactly a surname that lives up to your family’s wealth and status.”

“So? You’re a pureblood and one of the few noble families left. That’s all my parents ever wanted for me. Our status and wealth are far above yours, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not as if my inheritance will be some measly portion of gold. Plus, my mum adores you, and father is as fond of you as he is anyone, which is saying something.”

Hermione laughed. Septimus Malfoy was indeed a hard shell to crack.

“But no one needs to know anything yet. I don’t want anyone to. If things work out and we’re serious, then maybe, but for now this is between us and no one else, ok?”

Hermione nodded her agreement, dropping her chin on her arms. “Even our friends? Because I have a feeling someone close to us would be more upset by the news than a few picky pureblood families and invasive journalists.”

“Someone close to us? Who?”

“Victoria,” said Hermione, as if it was obvious.

“Victoria?” Abraxas sounded confused for a moment, then he sighed. “Who cares what she thinks.”

“She’s in love with you!” cried Hermione. “And she’s our best friend.”

“She’s not mine,” scoffed Abraxas. “Honestly, if I hung out with her alone outside of the group, I wouldn’t be able to stand her.”

Hermione frowned and elbowed him in the arm. “Brax, be a little sensitive! She’s been obsessed with you forever.”

“She’s obsessed with my money.”

“And you,” said Hermione firmly. “She thinks you’re the best thing since Portkeys.”

Abraxas pouted in a cute way, his light brown eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t want her though,” he said.

“I never said you had to return her feelings,” sighed Hermione, “only that you should be respectful of them. I could tell she was hostile with me at the ball. She probably saw what almost happened between us on the balcony, which would explain why she didn’t speak to me at the after-party and only returned one of my owls. She’ll be gutted by this.”

Hermione felt terrible at the prospect of one of her closest friends hating her. What kind of friend was she, going after the man that Victoria had pinned over for so long? But she hadn’t really gone after Abraxas. It had happened naturally, and neither Hermione nor Abraxas were to blame for that. Victoria would be disappointed, but Hermione didn’t think it just for her to feel guilty if Abraxas didn’t share Victoria’s feelings. Still, Hermione was going into this knowing that she could lose a friend, and the idea made her feel cruel and insensitive.

Abraxas settled his hands on her shoulders and smiled at her smally. “She might be, but it would be wrong of her to treat either of us badly for it. She never made her feelings direct to me, not verbally anyway. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, because it’s my feelings that are dictating this whole situation.”

Hermione nodded, her body sagging under the pressure of Abraxas’s hands.

“I should be going soon,” said Abraxas. “I need to look my best for the department festivities.”

“Yes, you must set aside at least half an hour to do your hair,” chided Hermione, trying to lighten the mood.

Abraxas nudged her lightly, laughing. “Are you mad? I need at least an hour for that.” He took her hands and pulled them both to their feet.

“I’ll walk you down.”

“Don’t bother,” said Abraxas quickly, holding her in place. “I can manage. Stay here by the warm fire. Take dinner in your room and avoid any more stress with your father, and then go to bed early.”

Hermione’s brow raised in intrigue. “What a fantastic idea.”

Abraxas smirked at her. “What would you do without me?”

Hermione’s lips twitched in a smirk of her own and she tapped her chin in thought. “I’m not sure…although I think I’d be much less confused.”

Abraxas flashed his teeth in a grin as his hands moved from hers to wrap around her waist. “I’m glad I’ve confused you,” he said with a precious hope in his eyes. “I hope to confuse you some more next Saturday night?”

“I suppose I can clear my calendar for you.”

“What a relief,” he snorted before slyly dropping a kiss down onto her cheek. “Maybe next time I do that it will be on the lips.”

Hermione was grateful that he turned and headed for the door, for her cheeks were burning hot. He certainly was confident in himself when he wanted to be, even with her. She managed to call out a goodbye before he closed the door, but her voice trembled and came out more like a croak. Blushing harder, Hermione sank back onto the couch and groaned aloud, dropping her head in her hands.

What on earth was she getting herself into? The logical side of her brain echoed this with: _Why on earth wouldn’t you?_ She had to agree with that, too. The two men she was most attracted to, the ones that she enjoyed spending her time with (for very different reasons), were Tom and Abraxas.

Tom…it was impossible. With Abraxas, the possibilities were endless. How could she have such slim options so young in her life? She was still, even since her fifth year, blindingly attracted to a possible dark wizard, while on the other hand she had innocent and sweet feelings for Abraxas, her best friend. A dark wizard and her best friend?

“Just bloody great…” mumbled Hermione. She stood from the couch, feeling too warm by the fire. What she needed was to cool off.

Hermione opened the pair of French doors across the room and stepped out onto her balcony. The air was cold, but she welcomed it, leaning over the railing. Beneath, the rose garden was blooming, protected by warming enchantments in the cooler months. Beyond the garden, the grass on the lawn was brown, the ground freezing and readying for the snow that was soon to come. Hermione couldn’t wait. Her family home always looked so delightful in the snow, but it was nothing compared to what Malfoy Manor looked like, with its vast gardens and frozen pond, or Hogwarts with its snowy, tall towers and icicled Gothic arches. Hermione smiled at the reality of Christmas drawing nearer, forgetting her troubles for a moment.

Once she grew cold, Hermione cast warming charms on her balcony. The late afternoon was too lovely to pass inside. She took Abraxas’s advice and called for Lolpey, informing the little elf that she would take dinner out on her balcony tonight. She lounged on the furniture outside and read for pleasure. She had thought enough of curses and research and Tom Riddle for one day. Late afternoon bled into evening and Hermione watched the early winter sun set over a bowl of rice and chicken Lolpey had brought her. When the sun set and the moon rose higher, Hermione was halfway through _Macbeth._ She reapplied her warming charms and settled into her chair with a blanket. Her mother had first read Shakespeare to her when she was a small girl. It had confused Hermione at first, but even from a young age she found the complexity of his plays intriguing. She remembered trying to force the stories on Abraxas when they were little. They would sit on the floor of his bedroom; she would work her way through a passage, sounding out the words and picking apart the characters while Abraxas played with his Quidditch figurines.

Hermione looked up at the sky with a fond smile at the recollection. It was clear of clouds this night and twinkling with stars. The moon was nearly full and very bright, and for many moments she got lost in its craters, her book falling closed in her lap.

Suddenly, a small black speck appeared in front of the big moon. It looked to be moving. After several moments, it grew larger and larger until Hermione could make out a winged figure. It was an owl. Hermione rushed into her room to retrieve a treat for the travel-worn bird. By the time she made it back outside, the owl was landing on her railing. She bustled over to it and untied the letter from its leg. The barn owl hooted in a curt greeting and thanks, snatched the treat from her open palm, and took off into the sky.

Hermione sat down with the letter. She did not recognize the elegant scrawl on the front. It was rare that she received a parcel from someone she did not know. She unfolded the letter quickly, which was tidily written and brief:

**_Hermione,_ **

****

**_I have received a letter from our beloved mentor, Professor Slughorn. He wishes me to take him up on his offer to demonstrate and assist him in the potion’s classroom one day soon at Hogwarts. He claimed in his letter that he did not think you especially interested in his offer when he presented it at the ball, but I hope you remember mine._ **

****

**_I simply must insist that you join me at Hogwarts the 26 th and the 27th of November, if only for the opportunity of meeting my match in the potion’s classroom. I fear, just as Professor Slughorn said, that we both missed out on a healthy competition being two years apart at school. It would be my greatest honor if you allowed me to prove my academic superiority to you in the classroom. If the opportunity for nostalgia won’t entice you to join me, I suspect that comment will. _ **

****

**_I will collect your response tomorrow at our lesson._ **

****

**_Regards,_ **

**_Tom M. Riddle_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me!!! I know you all are ready for Tom and Hermione to get together, but unfortunately this is all apart of my master plan (and maybe someone else's?) and a big component to the story!! 
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoyed the scene between Abraxas and Hermione in this, although I missed writing Tom (I got the feels writing his letter though). I can't wait for the story to progress now that Hermione knows what Tom is capable of. 
> 
> I honestly wasn't especially pleased with this chapter, but what did you all think and have you any theories for what's to come? As always, I'm forever grateful of your support and reviews! 
> 
> More to come soon xx El


	11. Kisses of Surety

“What exactly do you have planned for this so-called ‘date’?” asked Hermione, brushing off her traveling cloak. The Malfoy Manor Floo was so clean, though, that she hardly noticed any soot on the thick wool fabric.

“For the fifth time, it’s a surprise,” said Abraxas with a roll of his eyes. He moved behind her and helped her shrug off her heavy cloak. “I see you at least heeded my advice to wear comfortable clothes.”

“Yes, I did… _‘Light enough to play in but not heavy enough to overheat’_ you stated. What are we doing, playing Quidditch?”

Abraxas snorted. “I wouldn’t dare take a lady to play Quidditch on the first date, and I know too well that you hate flying.”

“Good. For a moment there, I thought you lost your common sense,” chided Hermione, tucking her cloak and small bag under her elbow.

“You look divine, by the way,” smiled Abraxas, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Follow me, then. I can’t wait to show you.”

Hermione hid her smile in the neck of her sweater as Abraxas took her hand and pulled her from the manor’s arrival room.

“Why did you have me Floo downstairs, anyway?”

“It’s much closer to our destination than my bedroom. Now hush as we pass my mother’s tearoom. She has Victoria’s mum and several others over for lunch right now and I’d prefer to go unnoticed and not be bombarded with gossip.”

Hermione snickered as Abraxas crept past a wooden door. Snobbish, high-pitched and posh voices trickled out from beneath the doorway.

“I heartily agree,” said Hermione, letting Abraxas pull her towards the back of the manor.

“How were your lessons with Tom this week?” he asked as they passed by the ballroom.

“Somewhat eventful,” hummed Hermione, recalling their meetings in the last week. Truthfully, the lessons had been successful. Tom had found a Dark Arts book from the Middle Ages that detailed curses. They had worked their way through two such books already but had found nothing similar to what Hermione was experiencing with her necklace. It made them wonder how long ago the necklace was created and if the Bullock family had even been the first to attain it.

Tom had not much opportunity to research the book’s contents before Wednesday, so he had given it to Hermione to read. She was nearing the last few chapters and suspected she would have little sleep tonight trying to finish it before her lesson with Tom tomorrow. Nothing useful had turned up yet.

She was not looking forward to another week of lessons, just as she had not the week prior. Ever since Hermione spoke with the anonymous girl that claimed Tom tortured her, she had, understandably, been on edge around him. She believed that young woman with all her heart; her gut and her mind told her to. It was exactly the evidence against Tom that she had been lacking. But in light of the terrible truth, Hermione had been put in a very horrible situation. She was forced to study, work, and research at Tom’s side, all the while pretending nothing was awry.

Tom was a much better actor than she. Hermione was sure he had caught onto her odd behavior. She was quieter and much more subdued around him. Unknowingly, she had taken a step back from the normal sassed and sarcastic tone she took with him because she was _scared_. One wrong move…was that all it took for Tom Riddle to resort to torture? Over and over in her brilliant mind, Hermione wondered what the poor girl from _Secondhand Tomes_ could have seen or heard that made Tom turn into a monster. She wouldn’t end up like her; she would be strategic and smart. Hermione knew that, to accomplish this, she needed to act less rigid around Tom and more relaxed. She needed to use the same strategy as Tom clearly did. She needed to display a persona that was the complete opposite of what she was feeling inside.

“I’m going to Hogwarts next week,” said Hermione, her curiosity peaking as Abraxas led them outside. The back porch and gardens, like hers at home, were charmed to stay warm in the winter months. She was delighted to see that it had snowed in Wiltshire overnight, and a few inches blanketed the vast grounds beyond the enchantments in the distance.

“Hogwarts?” echoed Abraxas. “Whatever for?” He kept a tight hold on her hand as he led them down the icy stairs to the gravel path below.

“At the ball, Professor Slughorn invited Tom and I to his classroom for a day or two, to demonstrate and speak with the students about life after Hogwarts.”

“Tom is going as well?” asked Abraxas, and Hermione did not miss the jealous undertone. It might her fight back a smile.

“He is. Slughorn really wanted to invite him, I think, because of his apprenticeship with my father. He only asked me to be polite.”

“Well you can still say no,” said Abraxas hopefully. “A whole two days with Tom?”

“I didn’t say I was looking forward to spending time with him,” snorted Hermione. “In fact, I’m rather dreading that part.” Abraxas had no idea _how much._ “But I am looking forward to going back to Hogwarts, and I really need to use the library.”

Abraxas’s concerned façade cracked, and he barked a laugh. “Of course, you do. Think you’ll find some useful books there about your curse?”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” said Hermione honestly. _And some useful information about Tom,_ she added to herself. “Are we going to the stables?” asked Hermione, suddenly recognizing the new path Abraxas had turned on.

“Yes,” he smiled, finally giving away the surprise. “That’s not the surprise, though.” Hermione frowned and Abraxas chuckled at her. “This _is_ supposed to be a date, you know. I can’t have us doing something we’ve done a hundred times before. We’re just going to be riding to our destination.”

“Which is…?” Hermione probed, but gave up when Abraxas just smirked and looked forward.

The stables were just as grand as any first-time guest to Malfoy Manor would expect them to be. It looked more like a miniature version of the stone mansion across the lawn rather than a barn, for the Malfoys surely wouldn’t allow something so decrepit and plain on their grounds. The outside was dark stone to match the manor with a dark roof, but inside it was brightly lit with pale wooden stalls and white iron gates. The Malfoys owned at least ten horses, but Abraxas had his own and Hermione one she favored and always rode. They were in stalls across from each other, and Hermione immediately dashed to meet hers.

“Malkia!” she gushed, holding a hand near the black stallion’s nose. It assessed her with warm eyes, recognizing her immediately, and pushed its nose into her palm. Hermione pet Malkia’s mane affectionately before turning to look at Abraxas with his horse, Roi. Roi was a tall stallion made of white hair, even whiter than Abraxas’s. She had always thought the resemblance to be rather funny and cute at the same time. Abraxas had had the horse since she was ten.

“Let’s bring them out then,” said Abraxas, unlocking the stall to his horse. Hermione did the same, leading Malkia out by her soft polyester bridle.

Abraxas grinned widely at her and they led their horses towards the shelf of saddles. “Do you want your usual one?” he asked, picking up a black leather saddle.

“Yes please,” said Hermione, reaching over to run her hand down Roi’s back. “You must have brushed him today,” she noted, her fingers skimming over the silky white hair of Roi’s neck.

“I didn’t actually. Maybe one of the house elves - ”

“It was me,” said a low and commanding voice from behind them.

Hermione whirled around. “Hello, Mr. Malfoy! Are you just getting back from a ride?”

Septimus Malfoy was strolling into the stables leading his grand brown horse behind him. His long pale hair was tied back in a ponytail, of which she couldn’t see the end of beyond his fur-collared cloak.

“Hello, Miss Granger. And yes, I am,” he said simply, sidling up to them. “I tended to the horses before I set off.”

Hermione knew that Mr. Malfoy did not find joy in much in life. He loved money and superiority, although he was not so outwardly arrogant as to speak out about it. He cherished his family above all, Hermione believed, although she knew he did not treat Abraxas with the same kindness now as he had when he was a boy. Still, she believed he loved Abraxas and his wife, even if he did not show it. Mr. Malfoy was not that kind of man; he was cold and emotionless, reminding her somewhat of Tom Riddle. If there was one thing Hermione knew the master of the manor enjoyed, it was the horses. He worked, socialized, and he threw parties, but he never had any hobbies other than taking care of the horses. Abraxas once told her, when he was fourteen and she twelve, that his father spent more time with the horses than he did around his son and wife.

“I thought you were in your study,” said Abraxas.

“I was,” said Mr. Malfoy gruffly, taking off his saddle and putting it on the shelf. He even took off his horse’s bridle, proving that he cherished his stallion’s comfort. “I’ll return there now,” he said, inclining his head in a bow to Hermione before turning and leading his horse to its stall.

Hermione hid a smirk as Abraxas handed her a black saddle and baby blue blanket. He looked sour at his father’s shortness, but Hermione knew that Abraxas didn’t expect any less from him either. Septimus Malfoy was known for being short and standoffish, and she was lucky that he even talked to her at all.

Their horses ready, Hermione and Abraxas donned their warmest cloaks. Out of her small, enchanted bag, Hermione took out a pair of white gloves and earmuffs. She fastened her cloak, which also had a fur collar to keep her neck warm.

Abraxas had just finished tightening the reins on his saddle when he turned to her and broke into laughter.

“What?” cried Hermione, for he was looking straight at her and pointing. “What are you on about?”

“What in Merlin’s name…are those,” choked Abraxas between cackles, staring at her head.

Hermione’s hands wrapped around her fluffy earmuffs defensively. “They’re to keep my ears warm, you prick!” she huffed, trying not to catch his contagious laughter.

“They’re nearly as large as your head,” snickered Abraxas, stepping up to her.

“They’re comfortable and ingenious! In ten minutes, when you’re complaining that your ears are cold, don’t look to me for pity.”

“It’s true, I don’t have a hat,” sighed Abraxas dramatically. “I may get frostbite. Will you kiss me better?”

Hermione stared at him in shock for a moment, unused to hearing such flirtation directed towards her from her closest friend, but then she cracked a smile and huffed a laugh, whacking him on the arm.

“Hush, you,” she chided, “or I’ll be forced to put an extra cushioning charm on these to block out the sound of you.”

Abraxas chuckled and brought his warm hands up to cradle the sides of her head, particularly her earmuffs. Hermione’s humor died in her throat and she stared up at him, suddenly very nervous when his pale blue eyes flickered to her lips.

But all Abraxas said was, “They’re softer than I thought,” and turned away from her.

Hermione released a short breath and took a step towards Malkia. She hoisted the reins over the horse’s head and stepped up onto the mounting block. As gracefully as possible, Hermione mounted her horse. Abraxas did the same and they led their horses towards the exit.

“Now will you tell me where we’re going?” asked Hermione as the snow began crunching under Malkia’s hoof.

“No,” said Abraxas, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Well how long will it take to get there?” she pressed and saw him roll his eyes.

“Ten minutes, maybe, if we’re fast enough…if you can keep up with me.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him when he turned and shot her a sly and calculating smirk. Then, he kicked his horse and took off in a run. She gaped at his back indignantly before laughing and quickly chasing after him.

They slowed only when they approached the distant lake that backed up to the Malfoy’s estate. Hermione had been here countless times with Abraxas before, so she was still confused as to what the ‘big surprise’ was, that is until they reached the bank of the lake. Abraxas turned to grin at her when she gasped aloud, a wide grin stretching her lips.

The lake was iced over from the freezing November temperatures, although Hermione suspected there was some magic involved. Not only was some of the snow cleared away from the lake, but it was really not cold enough to thicken the ice enough for skating, because to her delight, she noticed two pairs of white skates on a small table. On another table, there were piles of food and drinks. Abraxas helped Hermione off her horse and led her over to the lovely set up.

“This is incredible!” beamed Hermione, feeling happier than she had been in a long time. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been ice skating.

“Good, you like it,” sighed Abraxas in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“I love it!”

Hermione made a dash for the food table, feeling an obvious warming charm pass her fingertips as she reached for a mug of hot cocoa. There were also warm mugs of butterbeer and cups of tea, as well as trays of small sandwiches, mince pies, pumpkin pasties and spiced apple tartelettes.

“The elves are too kind,” gushed Hermione. “Thank you for asking for all this.”

“I even helped out a little,” Abraxas said to Hermione’s surprise. “I wanted it to be perfect, so I stayed in the kitchens while they made everything. I tossed all those apples in the spice sauce and even put them in the oven!”

Hermione wanted to keel over in laughter at the image. Abraxas was so different from his snobbish parents in many ways, but sometimes he followed in their footsteps and didn’t venture away from the traditions he was brought up in. Usually, entering the kitchen or touching unprepared food at all was on that list. Hermione felt very touched and very special that he would try something new for her.

“I can’t imagine it,” she admitted with a snort.

“It wasn’t pretty. I did set this all up though. That was much easier than the baking.”

In front of the table, there were piles and piles of warm blankets in the snow. Clearly, these were charmed as well, because they didn’t look damp at all. Abraxas offered to sit down with her hot cocoa, but Hermione was too excited. She put her cocoa aside, liking her lips of the foam, and dragged Abraxas over to the ice skates.

“I’m going to be dreadful,” said Hermione, picking up the smaller pair of skates and walking them over to the blankets. She sat down with Abraxas beside her and they began unlacing their boots.

“I can’t say the same,” said Abraxas, grinning. “I’m quite good.”

“Of course, you are.”

Abraxas was right. The moment he stepped on the ice, he sped off like a professional, did a full turn, and sprayed her with ice as he came to a quick stop back in front of her. Hermione, on the other hand, wobbled onto the ice with her arms flailing at her sides to find balance. Abraxas spent a good few minutes laughing at her slow, wobbly trot across the ice before he offered her his hand.

“Gee, thanks,” scoffed Hermione. “I can’t tell if this is a date or a regular day in the life of ‘Abraxas pestering Hermione’.”

Abraxas laughed harder but skated in front of her and took her by the waist intimately. “How about now?” he asked cheekily, pulling her flush against him.

“That’s…more date like,” said Hermione softly. Her breath caught in her throat when Abraxas bent his head and leaned towards her. He pressed a quick kiss against her cold nose and pulled away smiling.

“There,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now it’s a date.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed at the cute gesture, although they were probably already red from the cold. Abraxas took control and grabbed her by both hands. To her great annoyance, he began skating backwards, ordering her to copy his movements. She put one foot in front of the other, as if she was walking, and pushed with her back foot.

She improved quickly, though she stumbled frequently when her blades would scrape the ice at a wrong angle. Several times she thought she would fall and bring Abraxas down with her, but they stayed upright. Half an hour and countless laps later, Hermione was skating on her own, albeit very slow and cautiously. Abraxas seemed to enjoy helping her more than skating freely on his own, but Hermione convinced him to show her his best tricks. He could skate very quickly, so fast that he looked like he was running. He could turn quickly and spin in a circle, skate backwards, and even land a jump.

“You know the Muggles have a sport that’s actually played on the ice with skates,” said Abraxas sometime later, skating in big circles around her.

“Really? Leave it up to the Muggles to come up with something so interesting.”

“I think it’s called hookey…? Well, something like that, anyways. When I visited my distant cousins out west many winters ago, we watched a group of Muggle kids playing it beyond the enchantments of their house.”

“Your French-Canadian cousins?” asked Hermione.

“Yeah, those ones. The Muggles play in skates on the ice with sticks and some sort of ball thing they try to get in a netted goal.”

“How fascinating,” hummed Hermione, her interest in Muggle culture peaking. “I’m trying to imagine it, but it seems silly.”

“It sort of was, but it was cool. Nothing compared to Quidditch, though.”

A few laps later, Abraxas and Hermione decided to call it a day on the ice. They hobbled awkwardly back to the pile of blankets on the ground and slipped out of their skates. Hermione graciously welcomed the warming charms still stationed around the seating area. She happily slipped back into her boots and made a dash for the food table. Instead of making a plate, she simply levitated the dishes onto the blankets.

“Good thinking,” said Abraxas, picking up a hot butterbeer.

Hermione rejoined with her half-drunk hot cocoa, which was still steaming thanks to the magic involved.

“To our first date,” said Abraxas, grinning and holding up his mug.

“To a delightful first date,” echoed Hermione, unable to keep the smile off her face. They clinked their mugs together.

For nearly an hour they chatted heartily, snacking on the ham sandwiches, mince pies, pumpkin pasties, and apple tartes. They talked of Abraxas’s job and cleanly avoided Hermione’s curse. Mostly, they reminisced about Hogwarts when Abraxas brought up her and Tom’s upcoming trip again.

“What are you most looking forward to?” he asked, popping the last of his apple tart into his mouth.

“Just seeing the castle again,” said Hermione with a serene smile. “It represents so much for me. I mean, I’m looking forward to a reunion with the professors and the students I knew when I was Head Girl, but I can’t wait to just see it again.”

“I do miss it,” admitted Abraxas, leaning back on his palms and stretching out his legs. His shoulder bumped into hers and he grinned mischievously. “I used to get up to so much trouble in my earlier years.”

“And tried to drag me into it, if I remember,” snarked Hermione, smirking.

Abraxas suddenly barked a laugh. “Remember my fourth year, your second, when I convinced you to meet me in the kitchens at midnight?”

Hermione giggled and slapped a palm to her forehead at the distant memory. “The elves happily fed us for half an hour! We had jam all over our face when we were caught by that prefect.”

“Rookie mistake,” chortled Abraxas. “Always scrap the evidence.”

Their giggles lessened and they were quiet for a moment.

“I wish we had been friends during your fifth year until you graduated,” said Hermione, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice. They rarely talked of their brief estrangement, but it still saddened her at times. She had only been fourteen when Abraxas began to ignore her at school, but the emotions she tied to it still made her heart ache at times. She had cared for him so much, and her crush was still silently strong at that time, and he had broken her heart.

“We were still friends,” Abraxas insisted. “We still saw each other in the summers.”

“But not when we went back to school. That’s what hurt me the most.”

“I know, ‘Mione, but sometimes people just drift apart.”

Hermione was tired of that excuse, but she supposed he was right. 

“What about that time you convinced me to skip class and play chess with you in the Astronomy Tower in my first year,” she said, trying to change the subject.

Abraxas looked confused for a moment, as if he had forgotten the memory, but then he laughed. “The first and last time Hermione Granger ever skipped class. I’m honored it was for me.”

“You should be.”

Abraxas reached for the last pumpkin pastie at the same time as Hermione did and their fingers brushed.

“You take it,” said Abraxas, pulling away and taking a swig of his butterbeer.

“Split it?” asked Hermione.

Abraxas eyed the treat greedily and nodded. Hermione offered him his half. To her surprise, he made no move to take it and opened his mouth. Cheekily, he wiggled his eyebrows at her, causing Hermione to snicker. He wanted her to feed him.

“You’re a right flirt,” she said lightly, shoving the pastry in his mouth rather roughly. He laughed, sending a few pastry flakes flying, and bit down, narrowly missing her fingertips.

“I bnow,” he mumbled around the treat. Hermione giggled. “My charms don’t work on you like they do other girls.”

“Lovely,” snorted Hermione. “But get used to it. They never have.”

“And never will, apparently,” chuckled Abraxas, shoving the other half of the sweet into his mouth. Meanwhile, Hermione stole his butterbeer and took a large gulp.

“Have you asked your father for permission to go to Hogwarts?” asked Abraxas.

Hermione groaned. “I didn’t give him much of a choice. He wasn’t opposed, though. Hogwarts is the only place out of England I can go, remember? Plus, I think he was excited and relieved that Tom was going. He’s proud of his apprentice and he is relieved that Tom will be accompanying me, though I can’t say the same.”

Hermione pursed her lips at the harshness of her words. Abraxas raised an eyebrow and looked at her strangely.

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing,” said Hermione much too quickly. She hoped he would leave it at that. She couldn’t very well tell him she was suspicious that his best friend was a dark wizard unafraid of torturing young girls. Who knew where Tom’s treacheries ended? Or began? She hoped to answer the latter question next week at Hogwarts.

“How are your friends?” asked Hermione, trying to change the subject. She supposed she hadn’t directed it in the best way, but it had been the first thing to pop into her head.

“My friends? You haven’t asked about them before.”

“Well I just met all of them in one place, didn’t I? They seemed nice enough…the guys anyway. I can’t say the same for Walburga and her bitchy sidekicks.” 

Abraxas snorted a laugh at her crude language. “I wouldn’t consider myself friends with the girls, really. And I think the men were just nice because they think you’re attractive.”

“Charming,” Hermione deadpanned. “What about Orion Black? I wouldn’t say he was friendly; just surly, really. What’s going on with him and Walburga?”

Abraxas sighed as though exasperated by the very mention of the subject. “He’s committed to his bloodline,” he said, “but he’s not exactly excited about marrying his second cousin. Maybe if Walburga wasn’t a clingy, evil wench, he would feel differently.”

Hermione thought back to the end of the after-party when she had overheard Walburga telling Tom she would see him later that week. Did Tom think she was clingy and evil? Were they friends? After what she had learned of Tom, she figured they would get along quite nicely.

“She’s been pissed at him of late because he gets under her skin on purpose, like taking that Abbott girl to the ball and hanging around her older brother.”

“Walburga’s older brother?” questioned Hermione.

“Alphard Black,” said Abraxas. “You probably wouldn’t know him. He was two years above me at Hogwarts. He hangs around the group sometimes but he’s an Auror and is usually stationed in Scotland.”

“I’m not even sure I’ve ever heard of him.”

“He’s…a bit different,” admitted Abraxas cautiously. “A bit rebellious for the Black family, even more than Orion’s attempting to be. They can cover up Orion’s dalliances as of late, but Alphard is a bit more complicated, harder to control.”

“How so?”

“Well, he doesn’t really…uphold with the family and their beliefs. I mean, I think he believes in all the blood purity and stuff, but you haven’t heard of him for a reason. He’s not one to hang around and be dragged into dinner parties and arranged marriages.”

“Good for him, then, I say,” said Hermione, finding some respect for this mysterious rebel Alphard Black. She wondered how well Cedrella knew of his estranged beliefs, or if she knew of them at all? If Alphard secretly did not agree with his family’s traditional ideals, perhaps he could be a good friend to Cedrella, who had left her family to marry a man that wasn’t prejudiced. She must be some sort of distant cousin with Alphard? Perhaps even an aunt, as Cedrella was in her young thirties. The Black family tree _was_ very vast and complicated.

“So, on a scale of one to ten, how weird was this?” asked Abraxas suddenly, somewhat nervously.

“The date? Not at all,” said Hermione, thinking back on the last two hours. “I was nervous at first I suppose, because I knew we were both coming into this with a different mindset, different feelings, but it didn’t feel much different, did it?”

“Not really,” sighed Abraxas, “but we’re both so used to spending time together.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” said Hermione. “It still felt different enough. I mean, two months ago I wouldn’t have let you hold my hand or kiss my nose, would I? It wouldn’t have made me feel like a giddy schoolgirl either.”

Abraxas smiled softly. “True.”

He looked nervous and unconvinced. She had a sinking feeling that being with her today felt very different front the other girls he dated. Hermione didn’t have much to compare him to in that area, but Abraxas had been on many first dates. As much fun as they had had, was it just that? Fun between friends? Sure, they flirted and touched, but what was missing?

“Maybe it’s conversation,” blurted Hermione, much to Abraxas’s confusion. “Well, on a first date two people get to know each other, don’t they? We already do! You know me better than anyone. We don’t have to play a silly game of fifty questions. I know your favorite color is blue and your childhood fear was the dark. Perhaps we missed out on the depth of a first date, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Abraxas was grinning now, looking relaxed once more. “You’re right.”

“I know I am,” Hermione said with a smirk, vanishing the empty dishes in front of their legs.

“We don’t have to force anything. Whatever happens between us, whether it lasts or not, I want it to be natural.”

Hermione’s smile grew and she dropped her head into his shoulder, scooting closer.

“I mean it,” repeated Abraxas, seriously. “I care about you, ‘Mione, a lot. I don’t want anything to ruin this.” 

Hermione didn’t miss that Abraxas was speaking apprehensively, but she couldn’t help but feel the same way. It was natural to doubt what was between them. They were best friends, practically as thick as thieves since she was five, and now they were trying to discover if something else lied between them. She wondered if what could come between them was their friendship alone.

Hermione didn’t know what she wanted in the long run, a future at Abraxas’s side or his friendship, but for now she knew she wanted him. In the back of her mind, she asked herself if she wanted him for the wrong reasons, but as Hermione picked up her head and gazed at the man next to her, she couldn’t think of any.

Abraxas was staring out at the lake, his pale hair blending into the backdrop of the snowy treetops. His cheeks were pink from the butterbeer and his eyes were bright and beautiful, framed by long lashes. His lips were set in a straight but soft smile, and he looked content and happy. Suddenly, he turned his head to look at her and his hair fell into his eyes. A quiet moment passed between them, one that held a thousand unspoken words, but Hermione silenced them all by leaning up and pressing her lips to his.

Kissing Abraxas Malfoy had been a perpetual desire since she was a young girl. He was her first playmate, her first crush, then her first best friend and closest companion. Now he was suddenly more, and Hermione couldn’t believe she was the one to finally instigate a kiss between them after over a decade.

But she had to know, didn’t she? They both needed to know, deserved to know, even.

Abraxas was certainly caught off guard, but only for a moment. His hands immediately rose to cup her cheeks while Hermione had no clue what to do with hers. His mouth was softer than she had thought it may be. His lips were soft, but his kisses were hard. He worked her mouth open so that he could brush his tongue along her bottom lip and for a moment Hermione wanted to pull away. But then she was filled with something she had never truly felt before: desire. It had been a fleeting idea for every man she had ever been truly attracted to, but she had never acted on it because she had never been kissed like this. She had been kissed by boys at Hogwarts, not by men. She had grown into herself now, into her body and her mind, and her emotions were clear in her womanhood now.

Hermione stopped overthinking and forced herself to melt into the first proper snog of her life. Her hands finally surged into action. They came up to Abraxas’s shoulders just as he deepened the kiss by tugging her bottom lip between his teeth. Hermione gasped at the feeling before flushing immediately at the wanton sound. Abraxas moved one warm hand into her hair and the other down her back, rubbing comforting circles over her sweater. The action briefly reminded Hermione of the way they danced at the ball, and the memory had her heart beating faster and her fingers lacing around his neck.

She wasn’t even sure what she was doing. She had made out with one boy before, and tongues hadn’t been especially involved. Abraxas knew what he was doing, and it was intimidating because all Hermione could do was follow along. The touches with her tongue were tentative at first, but she let him take the lead. She was a fast learner though and caught onto his technique. She pulled his own bottom lip between her teeth but must have done so too hard because Abraxas groaned. Instead of pulling away though, he grabbed her waist with both hands and hoisted her onto his lap without breaking their kiss.

Hermione was glad he hadn’t, because the new position had her extremely nervous. If they had broken away for even a moment, surely, she would have come to her senses and scurried away. After a few stiff moments and softer kisses from Abraxas, she relaxed, but refused to sit down comfortably and stayed up on her knees. Abraxas’s hands did not venture below her waist and hers stayed roaming his broad shoulders, neck, and hair.

It was a moment of revelation for Hermione. She felt more secure in her feelings for Abraxas. They were best friends, and yet were kissing as if they had done so a hundred times. It came easily. It came easier than anything had between them so far, and the thought was alarmingly confusing and comforting at the same time.

Abraxas’s kisses softened once more, and Hermione reveled in them before he pulled away all together. Hermione kept her eyes closed, feeling her face warming with the full realization of what they had done. She peeped one open to see Abraxas staring at her. His own cheeks were flushed in a way that made him look so much like the young boy he once was that Hermione cracked a smile. His hair was slightly mussed from her wandering fingers and his eyes looked brighter than she had ever seen them. They twinkled in a way that reminded her of Professor Dumbledore.

“Merlin,” whispered Abraxas, his fingers stretching along her waist. “You’re so beautiful.”

It seemed he couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward and captured her lips once more. Hermione melted into it before she could stop herself. She could taste the spiced butterbeer on his tongue, and his lips although cold from the dissolving warming charm, warmed her sweetly. His fingers squeezed at her waist, trying to pull her closer, but Hermione found a sliver of self-control deep within and pulled back, breathing hard.

They stared at each other for many moments, still apparently, shocked at how natural they had become intimate with one another.

Hermione smoothed her hands over the fur of his cloak, trying to slow her breathing. She looked down, hiding a blush at their compromising position and Abraxas’s red lips.

It seemed neither of them knew what to say. A grin was inching up Abraxas’s mouth, but he was attempting to refrain it. Before Hermione could close him off in her shy state, Abraxas flipped them over, pushing her into the blankets.

Hermione yelped and looked up at him, alarmed, her hair a curly halo around her head. Abraxas leaned down and pressed another sweet kiss to her nose.

“Don’t get scared of me now,” he said softly.

“I’m not,” whispered Hermione, her eyes flicking to his lips. They twitched in a smirk.

“Are you ok with what just happened?”

Hermione’s heart soared even more at how kind he was, how concerned and protective and considerate.

“Very much,” admitted Hermione, her face flaming.

“Me too…very much,” said Abraxas, unable to hold back his boyish grin any longer. Hermione joined him and poked one of his dimples with her fingertip.

“Do you always snog a girl on the first date?” asked Hermione cheekily, trying to lighten the mood further.

Abraxas scoffed and held a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “Of course not. Actually, never, until you. I am a gentleman of the highest sort.”

Hermione laughed and sat up, forcing him off her. “We should go in. It’s getting cold and I promised my father a civil dinner tonight.”

“You’re getting along again, then?” asked Abraxas as he stood and helped her off of the blankets.

“It’s as good as it ever was,” said Hermione, pulling her gloves back on. “We’re civil and actually talk at dinner. I’ve started joining him for breakfast again and I even joined him in his lab yesterday. He was harvesting some new root he and Tom are using for their Dragonpox cure.”

“It sounds like he’s moving past it, then,” said Abraxas, handing Hermione her white earmuffs with a taunting smirk. She wacked him with them and shoved them over her ears.

Abraxas vanished the table, remaining food, ice skates, and blankets with his wand before leading Hermione towards the horses. Malkia and Roi had apparently enjoyed the snow, as their manes were covered in white powder, no doubt trying to reach the frozen grass below.

Abraxas made a show of helping Hermione onto Malkia, holding her waist tightly and brushing a hand across her knee to steady her. They rode off towards the manor, this time genially and not competitively. The sun was quickly lowering, proving that it was growing later in the afternoon. The black roof of Malfoy Manor appeared above the hill, covered in snow. It grew closer the longer they rode until they were trotting into the stables. Hermione slipped off her horse and walked Malkia towards the unloading station.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” asked Hermione.

“I need to finish my report for a trial I sat in on Thursday,” said Abraxas, pulling Roi up beside her. “Some German wizard broke the Statute of Secrecy while on holiday here and we had to get German diplomats involved. It’s been a mess really.”

“Why in Merlin’s name would he try something so foolish on holiday,” snorted Hermione, unbuckling the girth of Malkia’s saddle.

“No clue,” sighed Abraxas, tossing his saddle onto the shelf, “but it cost him an extra two weeks stuck in England.”

Hermione glanced over Roi’s back to see Abraxas openly staring at her. She smirked and turned to lift Malkia’s saddle off before grabbing a brush. They chatted lightly about Abraxas’s report while they brushed the horses down before returning them to their stalls. Hermione sat back and watched Abraxas move gracefully through the stalls, tossing mounds of hay into his horse’s stall before doing the same for Malkia. They made their way for the stable’s exit arm-in-arm with their horses returned happy and warm.

“I should leave you to your work then,” said Hermione as they passed a snorting gray palomino. “I need to get home and bathe before dinner, anyway.”

Abraxas froze, pulling Hermione to a stop with him. Instead of leading her out of the stables, her pulled her to the side of the wide double doors and pushed her into the stone wall gently.

“Don’t put those thoughts in my head,” he growled cheekily before leaning down and capturing her lips.

Hermione gasped into him, returning the kiss immediately. Abraxas’s bare hands were like ice on her skin as they found her wind-whipped cheek and neck. It was surprising how easily they melted into each other. Her fingers found solace in his hair again and she pulled him closer, kissing him with equal fervor.

Her cloak had shifted, and her lips were properly kissed by the time Abraxas pulled away.

“I’ve mentioned bathing in front of you before,” said Hermione breathlessly.

Abraxas rested his forehead on hers, smirking. “That was before I snogged you senseless and thought of you as more than a friend.”

Hermione giggled and dropped her hands from his hair to his shoulders. “I really _should_ go now,” she insisted.

Abraxas pulled away and tucked her hand in his elbow again, this time truly leading her from the stables.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss that bath.”

Hermione and Abraxas tread carefully back towards the manor. The snow had melted slightly throughout the day, but with the sun lowering and the temperatures dropping again, the path was growing icy. They only stopped when they reentered the gardens. Since they were protected by warming charms, Hermione stuffed her gloves and earmuffs in her pocket and unfastened the buckle on her cloak to keep her from sweating beneath her layers.

She admired the boxwoods leading up to the porch stairs as they drew nearer

“Thank you again for today,” she said, smiling up at Abraxas. “I really did enjoy myself.”

“As did I,” said Abraxas, sharing a secret smile with her. “I’m glad I didn’t muck things up.”

“You wouldn’t have. If anything, I think we both proved to ourselves that we’re doing the right thing,” said Hermione sincerely.

“I hope so, although the snogging _was_ promising.”

Hermione snickered and nudged him playfully. She held onto his arm tightly as they ascended the stairs. Clearly, the day was still full of surprises, if the person standing at the top of the stairs was any indication.

“Hermione,” came a deep voice laced in surprise.

Hermione stumbled, glancing up just in time to see Tom Riddle step into view.

“Tom!” said Hermione and Abraxas simultaneously.

Hermione tried to not let the surprise and disdain show on her face. Tom stood there looking dark and debonair in his black work robes, his chiseled features hardened into a stony expression. Yet, he had a friendly smile on his face, one that Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to return. Why was he always popping up everywhere? Thursday, she had covered a shift at work for her boss and she had seen him at the same patisserie on her lunch break. It seemed now that she knew the truth of who Tom really was, he was everywhere she turned.

“I didn’t know you were coming over, Tom,” said Abraxas.

Tom’s eyes met Hermione’s steadily and examined her so closely that she wondered if he could hear her thoughts. He looked from her rosy cheeks to her lips and hair, which surely gave away that she had just been snogged. When Tom looked back to her once more, his eyebrows raised. Hermione had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what happened. She blushed, for some reason feeling guilty that he had found them out. Abraxas stiffened next to her. Tom was staring at his own mussed hair and had surely come to the same conclusion.

“I had a favor to ask. Your father said he had last seen you in the stables. I’m sorry if I interrupted something,” Tom added slowly, his cold eyes surveying them both back-and-forth. “I wasn’t made aware that Hermione was with you.”

He said it so subtlety disapprovingly that Hermione was momentarily taken aback, her own eyebrows raising to mirror his.

“I was just leaving,” she said after a few tense moments. “Abraxas was kindly escorting me to the Floo.”

“Allow me to accompany you both, then,” said Tom swiftly, stepping aside so they could make it to the top of the stairs.

Once they had, Tom offered Hermione his arm. Abraxas clenched his jaw out of the corner of her eye. She took his arm with her free one, swallowing thickly, and let the two men lead her across the large porch.

“How was your ride?” asked Tom lightly, sounding fake as he tried to make light conversation.

Hermione suppressed a roll of her eyes and let Abraxas answer the question. She was happy to make the journey to the fireplaces quietly. Meanwhile, she would need to keep her flaming cheeks at bay. She was more than aware that she was in the arms of both Abraxas Malfoy and Tom Riddle, the two men that had been the sources of her attraction in the last month and surely held the hearts of countless women across Great Britain. She wondered what Eleanor Greengrass would say once Hermione told her.

Her hand had been lazily holding the crook of Abraxas’s elbow, but Tom had linked her arm completely through his, pulling her closer to him than she was with Abraxas. There was no sense in fighting Tom though, for his arm was stiffly locked against his torso. Hermione glanced up at him to see if his expression had lightened any. His tone and smile gave away that it had, but his features still looked tense to her.

She really was stuck between the light and the dark. Hermione wanted to snicker at the idea, but as she sneaked a look up into Tom’s dark features one last time, she realized it was true. Abraxas practically blended into the snowy background while Tom starkly stood out against it, his dark hair styled in his usual waves off his forehead. There was some sort of ridiculous metaphor in it all that Hermione did not miss.

Malfoy Manor was warm and welcoming once they stepped inside, but Hermione felt like clambering through the hall and diving headfirst into the Floo. As enjoyable as her afternoon with Abraxas had been, Tom’s appearance had ruined it. She simply wanted to leave now.

Once they reached the manor’s arrival room, Abraxas’s moves were quick and perhaps slightly jealous when he tugged Hermione away from Tom. Tom’s grip on her arm had been so tight that it ached when she stepped away from him.

Fastening her cloak again, Hermione reached up and planted a kiss on Abraxas’s cheek.

“Thank you for today,” she said formally, offering him a secret, small smile. After all, they had decided not to tell anyone they were dating.

“It was my pleasure.” Abraxas said so equally as formal but offered her a private wink.

Not wanting to forget her manners, and knowing she had to act normal around Tom, she stepped around Abraxas to bid him goodbye.

“Tom, I will see you tomorrow,” she said. She thought she hid her dread quite well considering the last thing she wanted to do was sit through another lesson pretending to like and trust him.

“I look forward to it, as always, Hermione,” said Tom, stepping forward and taking her hand. Hermione froze as he brought her knuckles to his soft lips and pressed a chivalrous kiss to them. That small action never failed to catch her off guard.

Hermione bid both men a gleeful farewell and moved to the nearest fireplace. With a splash of Floo powder and a roar of green flames, the two Slytherins watched the object of their interest disappear.

“You said you had a favor to ask of me?” said Abraxas stiffly, turning an easygoing smile on Tom.

“Yes,” hummed Tom sardonically, “just an inquiry I would like you to make at the Ministry.”

“Ah,” said Abraxas, falling silent. Tom’s behavior had caught him off guard. He knew better than most when Tom was faking friendliness, and he had been acting for Hermione’s sake since he met them on the porch stairs. “Have I done something wrong, my Lord?” asked Abraxas shakily, dropping into a nervous bow.

Tom’s chuckle echoed long and icily throughout the room. “Not at all. You are a good companion Abraxas. I see you took my friendly advice on going through with courting Hermione?”

“I have, my Lord.”

“And have your feelings progressed since you mentioned them to me in September?”

“They have, my Lord, more than I thought.”

“I am happy for you then, Abraxas,” said Tom shallowly. “Hopefully Hermione can be the solution to that marriage deal with your father.”

A content and sincere smile inched up Abraxas’s lips. “It’s too early to tell, my Lord, but I already know I would desire such a union with her.”

Tom smiled tightly. “What delightful news that is,” he said softly, resting a firm hand on Abraxas’s shoulder like they were the best of mates. “And do you have anything to report to me regarding Hermione?”

“No, my Lord,” said Abraxas quickly. “She has not asked about you in several weeks, not even to me.”

“That is more concerning than it is good,” said Tom, beginning to pace. “Either she trusts me completely or she believes you are too loyal a friend to make harsh inquiries and accusations against me... I suspect the latter.”

“I don’t think that is the case - ”

“Hermione may think she has me fooled, but I have noticed the change in her this week. She is more reserved and cautious around me.”

“She let nothing on to me, my Lord,” said Abraxas quietly, cautiously. Tom’s eyes had turned dark and greedy within mere moments.

“She knows something,” said Tom in a tone of finality, staring at the fireplace that Hermione had disappeared in minutes ago. “I knew it was only a matter of time… _Clever witch_ …” Tom hissed softly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It is sooner than I planned, but no matter… Shall we retire to your room, Abraxas?”

“My room?” quivered Abraxas.

“Yes,” said Tom quietly, his smirk growing positively malicious. “There is something I wish to _see_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not especially proud of this chapter but...omg the ending has me feeling some type of way xD I almost didn't put in the scene with Abraxas and Tom but then I was like noooo I want to fuck with you all a little :)) 
> 
> I know you are ready for more Tom! So am I. The next two chapters are going to be longggg and full of Hermione and Tom's visit to Hogwarts. I can't wait to take us all back to Hogwarts!!
> 
> Also, we just reached 100k words with this chapter! This is gonna be a long one...but the outline for the story is improved on every day and damnnn I can't wait to show you all what I have in store! Some scenes I'm already so eager to write but I'm trying to force myself to stay on track. 
> 
> As always, I appreciate all of your support in the comments! It means so much to me and spurs me on to write, write, write!! 
> 
> xx El


	12. Back to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting patiently! Hopefully this chapter of 15.5k words makes up for it!

In the days leading up to Hermione’s departure to Hogwarts, she felt the curse taking effect more than ever. Her mood generally felt like it was growing darker, so much so that she avoided seeing Abraxas on Tuesday evening. Her mind continuously strayed to unhealthy thoughts. She felt like her magic was on a fishing line, reeling her towards the darkness. It was dramatic, but unfortunately accurate. On Tuesday, after Hermione ignored Abraxas’s owl to join him for dinner in Diagon Alley, her magic felt like it was pulling her towards _something._ She didn’t know what it was or _why_ her chest felt suddenly tight and her magic anxious and _hungry._ But she followed that pull, and it led her straight to the small collection of Dark Arts books her father allowed in the library of their home. She had fled, terrified, and had stayed clear of the library since, not matter how terribly anxious it made her feel. It was like the feeling needed to be sated, though, because ignoring it truly made her feel physically ill.

Despite her current disdain for Tom, she rushed to tell him this at their Wednesday lesson. He was unsurprised but ‘concerned’ by the change in her. The horrible thing was that she only felt better when she was around him. They had tested the theory further Wednesday night, when Tom made Hermione read a chapter from a Dark Arts book and handle a cursed goblet that he had brought from _Borgin and Burkes_.

It was Thursday now, and Hermione felt much better after the previous night’s lesson with Tom. Still, a thick lump of anxiety had swelled in her chest when she woke up and she felt the familiar pull towards the library, towards Tom, and towards darker thoughts of how she could satiate her cravings. She would actually be grateful to be around him the next two days if only to feel less anxious and ill. It wasn’t especially a good thing, of course. It felt like he cured her, just like the books and dark objects did, but of course it was _because_ they were dark that she felt better. Tom’s magic wasn’t just affected by his academic interest in the Dark Arts, it was dark because _he_ was a seasoned professional at practicing it. If torturing a fellow student was any indication, Tom was capable of anything. She intended to research some of her theories about him while at Hogwarts, but since their schedules would most likely be the same, she would need to exercise caution so as to not get caught.

Hermione closed her trunk and did one last sweep of her room. With her wand, she shrunk her trunk down to the size of her palm and stowed it in her cloak pocket before leaving her bedroom. Downstairs, Hector was waiting with her cloak and a smile.

“Have a wonderful time with Professor Slughorn, m’dear!”

Hermione kissed his cheek. “It shall be a fun experience. Maybe it will push me to be a teacher,” she added, mostly to amuse her father.

“What a joy that would be,” he mused, leading her towards the front door. Lolpey opened it with a deep bow, her long ears sweeping the rug.

“Don’t bother walking me out, father; it’s too cold.”

“Very well,” hummed Hector, patting her cheek. “Please be careful, and _don’t_ leave the grounds! Stay with Tom or a teacher, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”

“Don’t wait up,” said Hermione with a tight smile before treading slowly down the steps. The sun was hazy in the early morning sky and the air was crisp.

Yesterday, Tom had told her to meet him in Hogsmeade at seven in the morning. Professor Slughorn would greet them at the Hogwarts gates and give them their agendas. Other than this information, they didn’t know much else about their stay.

Hermione waved once over her shoulder and felt the wards shimmer through her as she passed through the front gate. When she glanced back, her home was gone, nothing but a wide stretch of dying grass. In the far away distance, she could see the nearest Muggle town beginning to wake up. Knowing she would be ten minutes early to meet Tom, Hermione disapparated.

When she landed on solid ground again, she was unsurprised to see Tom already waiting. She had not met anyone more punctual than her until she met Tom Riddle.

“Hello, Hermione,” he greeted with a smile. It was not even seven in the morning and he looked perfect. His dark hair was wavy and slick, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold breeze. From what she could see, he was wearing black slacks and a white button down beneath his heavy cloak. On the other hand, Hermione felt pale and tired and knew her eyes were heavy from waking so early.

“Tom,” she nodded, stepping off of the Apparition platform in case anyone else decided to make an early journey to Hogsmeade.

“Slughorn is to meet us at the gates at a quarter past,” he said, beginning to walk towards Hogsmeade.

Hermione followed after him, pulling up her hood to block some of the wind.

“I would offer my arm but I’m afraid you would get too cold outside of your cloak,” said Tom.

Hermione looked up at him and reluctantly offered a polite smile. “It’s quite alright. I’m perfectly fine to walk on my own.”

Tom chuckled low and deep as they passed through the gates to the small town. “And yet it is still tradition to lead a lady in our society.”

“In pureblood society,” Hermione corrected, scrunching her nose. “A chivalrous tradition, to be sure, but a ridiculous one, among countless others.”

Tom laughed again and Hermione wondered how on earth he could be so lively at dawn. “You do not always seem to appreciate the community you were born into.”

“That’s because I don’t,” said Hermione rather matter-of-factly. “I don’t necessarily agree with everything that is upheld by purebloods.”

Tom looked at her calculatedly. “Surely you believe in the importance of blood purity?” he asked lightly, although Hermione could tell it was a serious and probing question.

She met his eye as they passed by _Zonko’s Joke Shop_. Hogsmeade was slowly waking with soft glows from apartment and townhome windows, but the stores would be closed for hours yet.

“I do, to a degree, but I do not believe in discrimination,” said Hermione sharply.

“I agree, but I must admit I have my prejudices.”

Hermione looked at him in surprise. How could he be prejudiced against Muggles after being raised in their world as a half-blood?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tom continued lightly, as if he had read her mind. “You are one of few who know my backstory.”

“One of few?” Hermione echoed, her brow raising. “All of your friends know, surely.”

“They know I am half-blood, raised in a Muggle orphanage, just as you do,” said Tom, looking towards Hogwarts with a haunted look in his eye. “I had to gain the respect of my peers at school. It is not easy being a Mudblood in Slytherin. I thought I was for many years, you see, until I realized my true heritage.”

“That must have been difficult,” said Hermione, trying to keep the pity out of her voice. She couldn’t believe she found it in herself to have pity for him at all, but she knew Tom wouldn’t appreciate it. “So, you have not told anyone of your wizarding family?”

Hermione knew she was probably treading on dangerous ground, and she cursed her curiosity, but Tom only smiled.

“No,” he said. “They brought shame upon themselves and me.”

Hermione remembered him telling her and her father this countless weeks ago. His magic had flared uneasily then, and she felt it doing the same now. Instead of it alarming her as it once did, however, it only brought her comfort now. Hermione felt the tight knot in her chest loosening and she unconsciously fell into step closer to his side.

“I once told you that you must be related to someone very powerful to have the talents you do,” said Hermione carefully. “Without your family, you would not have your magical ability. Just remember, a man is not his family, so do not be ashamed of them.”

If Tom were anyone else, she would have added that his family would have been proud of him, but how could she say that knowing he tortured a young girl? If there was ever a time Hermione felt empathy for Tom Riddle, it was on the subject of his family. He had not known his mother or father; he had apparently not even known of his true family until he came to Hogwarts. He had lived in the dark for half of his life; it was ironic that he welcomed that darkness with open arms, that he willingly let it consume him as it was beginning to consume her.

“I am ashamed of both my families,” said Tom heartlessly. “I suppose that is why I am prejudiced against Muggles. My experience with their _kind_ was not a good one.”

Hermione felt another twinge of guilt but decided to leave it alone. “I’m sorry if I pried. It is much too early for such heavy conversation.”

“I brought it up, really,” said Tom. He offered her a smile and they dissolved into silence.

Hogsmeade had been left behind now, and the path had narrowed. Hogwarts was gray and grand in the foggy morning light. Hermione could see candles being lit in the Great Hall, most likely welcoming the early risers for breakfast. She remembered being the only Gryffindor that would rise with the sun and eat an early breakfast while reviewing her notes and homework for the day’s classes. The only other pupil that did the same was Tom; sometimes they were the only ones to breakfast before eight, their notes and textbooks in front of them. With a grimace at herself, Hermione recalled how she would stare at him during her brief crush in her fifth year. The days after he caught her after curfew in the library were the worst; she would watch him from the Gryffindor table at every meal, reminiscing how his jaw clenched when she talked back to him, how he had held her arm in a tight grip. Hermione blushed at how immature she used to be, but also for the fact she would be returning to the very place she had harbored feelings for Tom so long ago… _with_ Tom Riddle himself.

“Are you excited to return to Hogwarts?” asked Hermione as tall iron gates grew taller in the distance. With a fond smile, she could see a small dot that had to be Professor Slughorn hobbling down the path from the school.

“Not to get sentimental on you again,” smirked Tom slyly, “but yes I am. Hogwarts was my only home once. It was either here, where I knew I belonged and flourished with my own kind, or it was back to starving in the orphanage.”

Hermione couldn’t keep the frown off her face and Tom didn’t seem to appreciate it either when she turned it on him. Her assumptions were right then; he was definitely not one to want or enjoy another’s pity.

“No one could accuse you of being sentimental, Tom,” said Hermione, attempting to lighten the mood. It earned a soft chuckle from Tom that had her stomach fluttering. “I am glad you found solace here, though. I suppose we are alike in that way. Hogwarts meant your freedom just as it meant mine. It was the escape from the suffocating places we should have been able to call home.”

She had never thought of that before, not until she said it. For a moment, Hermione could relate to Tom in way that was much different from their magically-induced connection. There was one thing they had in common after all: Hogwarts had meant the world to them. Without it, they would have been lost souls in their teenage years. Hermione wondered if Tom still was.

“Are you excited then?” asked Tom, looking down at her. Hermione wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t responded to her previous words. She supposed _she_ really was the sentimental one, but she knew Tom wasn’t one for comforting words, either.

“I am! It should be fun, sleeping in the castle and eating in the Great Hall again, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” said Tom, smiling. The wind gently swept through his hair, making it fall onto his forehead. He made no move to brush it away. “Look.”

Tom motioned towards the gate that was mere meters away. Professor Slughorn was waving at them through the bars, having reached the gates before they did. Hermione and Tom glanced at each other and shared a laugh at their professor’s enthusiasm.

“Oho! My star pupils!” cried Slughorn as they advanced.

“Hello, professor,” called Hermione.

He opened the gate for them, and they swept through, exchanging pleasantries. Slughorn was grinning so widely that his blonde mustache quivered with the strain of stretching his lips.

“I’m positively delighted you owled me back, Tom, and with Miss Granger’s acceptance as well!”

“I couldn’t very well decline, sir,” said Hermione with a smile and a meaningful look at Tom. “Tom threatened to outperform me in the classroom.”

Slughorn boomed such loud a laugh that Tom and Hermione actually flinched in surprise. Hermione tried not to grimace; it was much too early for such noise.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we m’boy?” cried Slughorn, clapping Tom on his broad shoulder.

“No sir,” said Tom politely, “although I suppose we’ll be brewing for academic purposes rather than competition?”

“Not necessarily,” said Slughorn, and Tom shot Hermione a wily look. “Let’s walk and I’ll fill you both in on the schedules, shall we?”

So, the three of them started up the frozen grassy path towards Hogwarts. It began drizzling and the men joined Hermione in pulling their hoods over their heads.

“I have you scheduled to assist me in four classes, two today and two tomorrow. You’ll have my NEWT students and third years, today. Tomorrow, a class of my first years and fifth years. I thought the latter could do with some encouragement before their OWLs next term.”

“That should be delightful,” chimed Hermione, trying to keep her hood securely around her head. The wind was whipping terribly now, and she could hardly see where she was walking; she kept bumping Tom’s arm with her shoulder.

“Are you sure you couldn’t benefit from our assistance all day, sir?” asked Tom politely.

“Oh no, oh no!” said Slughorn reassuringly, his steps quickening as the rain picked up. “I only have two other classes today and one tomorrow. I want you to be able to enjoy your stay! Besides, the other years are rather in a state of boorish lectures right now.”

“Your lectures were never boring, sir,” said Tom, and Slughorn immediately straightened his shoulders and smiled.

Hermione snorted under her breath beside Tom at his purposeful flattery. Slughorn, ascending the castle stairs ahead of them, did not hear, but Tom shot her a glare. Instead of frightening her with its intensity, it made her giggle. _Really,_ she shook her head, it was just how she had imagined him to be at school.

Finally, several minutes later, they came to the top of the landing and scurried through the large oak front doors of Hogwarts Castle. The rain was so heavy now that Hermione could not even see the magnificent view below and beyond the bridge. She hoped the weather would clear up. She had missed Scotland and the beauty of the wild Highlands so much. Inside, the Great Hall was warm and welcoming, and even Tom joined Hermione in smiling as she looked up at the tall ceilings, the portraited walls, and the hourglasses full of red, blue, yellow and green marbles that represented awarded House points. Next to it was the familiar bulletin board of upcoming events and pamphlets from school clubs. The greatest view was through the doors of the Great Hall. Hermione could only see two students inside, since it was not yet even eight in the morning, as well as teachers beginning to trickle into their seats at the elevated head table. It was the smell that brought back the fondest memories for Hermione. Warm cinnamon oatmeal, roasted tomatoes, eggs and potatoes, tea and coffee.

“Welcome home!” said Slughorn, noticing the content and nostalgic look on both Tom and Hermione’s faces. “Over a year for you, Miss Granger, and three for you, Tom! How does it feel?”

“Wonderful,” they both said in unison. Hermione looked up at Tom and smiled softly.

“Well, I’m sure you’re both hungry for a Hogwarts breakfast, but I thought you might like to get settled in and changed out of your wet cloaks first, yes?” said Slughorn. “Follow me, then!”

Slughorn hobbled away towards the moving staircase, greeting a young girl in Ravenclaw robes on the way. Instead of climbing the stairs, Slughorn began descending them towards the dungeons.

“I thought you both might like to stay by the classroom for convenience,” said Slughorn. “We have guest rooms throughout the castle, so it seemed like the perfect solution.”

The staircase became darker without the windows and natural gray light from outside. Hermione felt like she was retracing her steps, and she felt very nostalgic as she descended the stairs. She remembered walking this very path years ago to meet Abraxas by his dormitory. There was an abandoned classroom somewhere in the dungeons with an underground window that looked into the lake. Abraxas, and later Victoria and Alfyn when Hermione befriended them, had always spoken of the grandiosity of the Slytherin common room, with its floor to ceiling windows that looked out into the Black Lake. Abraxas had claimed to see mermaids so often that Hermione demanded he sneak her into the common room in her first year. Instead, he brought her to the old empty classroom with the circular window. They would meet there often and play cards or do homework

Hermione also remembered descending the staircase to Potions class with her Gryffindor friends, Jameson Finch-Fletchly, Elphiard Longbottom, and a girl named Angelica Prewett that had married and moved to Ireland with her husband the moment they had graduated. Hermione had fallen out of touch with the girl, although they had traded some owls in the months after graduation. For two years in a row, the Gryffindors had had Potions with Ravenclaw; it was how she and Eleanor became such good friends. Hermione recalled clearly rushing to class with Eleanor at her side, passing the handsome Head Boy Tom Riddle on the way. Eleanor would whisper how ‘hot’ and ‘nerdy’ he was with his perfect hair and sinewy build and his armful of books.

Those days seemed so long ago, and Hermione supposed they were. Now, out of the corner of her eye, the Head Boy himself was walking at her side down into the Slytherin dungeons, and he hid a dark secret that only Hermione knew.

A sleepy looking Slytherin boy with a Head Boy badge suddenly stopped his ascent on the stairs next to them and greeted Professor Slughorn.

“Ah, Angus! Good morning, my lad. You must meet our guests. This is Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger. They will be assisting me in your class later! They are both very skilled at potions.”

“How wonderful,” said the boy silkily, smiling at Slughorn. His stature and smooth voice reminded Hermione of Tom, although the boy had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. “I’m Angus Rowle, Head Boy. I remember you both from your Head positions. It will be a pleasure to have you both in class today.”

“Nice to see you again, Angus,” said Hermione, shaking his hand. “I remember you from prefect patrol meetings.”

Truthfully, Hermione hardly remembered him at all, but she smiled as if they were old friends. Two deep red splotches appeared on the apples of Angus’s cheeks.

“Ah, yes, er - of course,” stumbled Angus. “I learned a lot from you that I try to apply to my own duties as Head.”

Hermione was honored by the compliment, but she suddenly remembered Angus much better now, if his flushing cheeks were any triggering indication. She had often caught his eye in prefect-Head meetings, mostly because he had always been staring at her. She found it cute then and flattering now and tried to suppress the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth for his own expense.

“Well, I’ll uh - see you all in class then,” said Angus quickly, bidding Slughorn goodbye. He looked like he wanted to say something to Tom personally, since they had not spoken yet, but he simply scurried away with wide eyes.

As Hermione glanced up to her right, she realized why. Tom wore his usual emotionless and lazy expression that often made people feel like he wouldn’t give a damn what they had to say anyways. Hermione had quickly learned to ignore that particular look, but poor Angus had probably been intimidated, like most were.

“Bumbling boy sometimes, that Rowle,” said Slughorn, resuming his descent down the next flight of stairs, “but brilliant! Unmatched with you though, Tom,” he added, clapping another hand on Tom’s shoulder.

Hermione rolled her eyes behind both of their backs at being so blatantly left out of the compliment, but Tom had obviously caught on and shot her a cocky smirk over his shoulder. She scowled and a tripping jinx tingled at the tip of her tongue.

The dungeons were as cold, dim and damp as Hermione remembered them to be. The corridor was freezing, and Hermione was beginning to grow chilly under her damp woolen cloak. Slughorn luckily came to a stop in front of a space of wall between the staircase and a perpendicular hallway that Hermione knew led to the Potions classroom. He opened the wooden door with a key and led them inside.

The room was much warmer than the hallway. A fire was roaring in the hearth and Hermione immediately noticed, with delight, two windows that looked into the Black Lake. She quickly realized that it wasn’t a bedroom, but a common room. There were two doors on each side of the room and realization began to dawn.

“This is one of the guest rooms,” said Slughorn. “A bedroom and bathroom on each side. The kitchenette is fully functional but only stocked with tea. I thought these particular guest quarters would be perfect for your visit. The classroom is just down the hall and to the right, as I’m sure you remember.”

“This will do just fine, sir. Thank you,” said Tom. Hermione tried to feel as optimistic. She supposed she was getting the privacy she wanted from Tom, but it _would_ make it more difficult for her to sneak off to the library and attempt to carry out some sneaky research on her temporary roommate.

“I’m glad!” said Slughorn. “I thought it would be easier to keep you both in one place since you’ll be on the same schedule.”

“That was a wise decision,” said Tom lightly, and Hermione glared at his blatant adulation this time.

“Well then, I’m going to dispose of my cloak in my room and head to breakfast. Come up whenever you’re settled in. There are empty seats for you at the end of the teacher’s table. The first class is at nine - double Potions with the NEWT students.”

“Sounds wonderful, sir. Thank you,” said Hermione gratefully. She watched him leave with trepidation and closed the door softly behind him.

Hermione turned around to see Tom smirking. “Shall we see who gets which room?”

Her frown faded and she breathed a laugh. “Fine, as long as we agree that I get the best one.”

Tom’s smirk grew and he began copying her movements by undoing his rain-sodden cloak. Hermione was grateful her robes were dry underneath, because she had not updated the water-repelling charm on her cloak in weeks.

“I didn’t think we’d be sharing a room,” said Hermione, walking into the seating room and laying her cloak out before the fire. Her shrunken trunk was retrieved out of the pocket.

“We’re sharing a common room, not a bed, Hermione,” said Tom with a trace of mocking amusement.

Hermione flushed. “You know what I meant,” she hissed, embarrassed by the insinuation.

Tom only hummed and walked his long legs towards one of the bedrooms. Hermione reluctantly followed, not really caring which room she had a door to close and lock him out of. Most importantly, she needed a safe space that she could compose herself for the next thirty-six hours with Tom.

The first bedroom was also warm from its own burning fireplace, with a basic wooden headboard just like in the dormitories and white sheets. The blankets looked soft and inviting and Hermione wished she was in bed. She usually liked to wake at eight in the morning, _not_ six. There was a black wardrobe and dresser, and Hermione figured the other room probably looked the exact same.

She was right. When they crossed the room to the other bedroom, it was an exact replica, but as Hermione popped her head inside the bathroom, she said:

“I want this one.”

“Why?”

“ _Why_ are _you_ making such a big deal out of the bedrooms?” scoffed Hermione. The mischievous look in Tom’s eyes said it all: he was just trying to rile her up by being petty. “This one has a bathtub,” she admitted reluctantly.

The smirk on his face was the widest Hermione had seen in her few months of knowing him, and he flicked his brilliant dark blue eyes between her and the bathroom. “You prefer baths?” he hummed, his voice high and soft. “How… _sensual_.”

Hermione gawked at him. _Honestly_ , what was it with men and baths? First, Abraxas, and now Tom? Of course, Abraxas had reacted so because he had just snogged Hermione silly and was imaging her _in_ it. Tom, on the other hand, just wanted to taunt her.

“ _You…”_ hissed Hermione, spluttering. Tom’s laugh echoed around the room. “Get out of _my_ room,” she huffed, stomping towards him. Despite the warning bells sounding in the back of her head, she began pushing him towards the door. Apparently, though, Tom was in a rare petty and joking mood and so she had no qualms about getting physically rough and demanding with him. It was time like this, when he was antagonistic and laughing, that made Hermione forget who he really was. Ignoring the charming way his eyes crinkled at the corners, Hermione pushed him through the open doorway and slammed the door shut.

His chuckles rang through the door until she heard his own bedroom door shut. Groaning and shaking her head, Hermione pulled out her wand and enlarged her trunk on the floor. A few more flicks and her clothes were hanging in the wardrobe. Not wanting to suffocate under her robes in the classroom all day, Hermione took off her stuffy robes and threw on pants and a sweater instead. She felt more comfortable moving around a classroom in tighter clothes, and this way she wouldn’t risk dipping a long robe sleeve into a cauldron. The expensive and lacy pureblood robes her father spoiled her with weren’t cut out for a day in a potion lab. Hermione used the restroom and ran a comb through her hair, applying a little Sleekeazy since the rain that had reached under her hood frizzed her hair slightly. She even applied a little makeup, though she wasn’t sure why, before pocketing her wand.

Tom was already outside, sitting on the couch before the fire. He looked like a student in his black slacks, white button up, and a sweater vest. She recognized the green trim as one of the Slytherin House uniform pieces.

“I see you’re showing your House pride,” she said, nodding to his old school vest.

“I see you are too,” said Tom, nodding to her maroon sweater. Hermione rolled her eyes. “What’s with you and Muggle clothes anyway?”

Hermione glanced down at her pants with a frown. “What’s wrong with them?” she shot back. “Cedrella Black gets them for me. She knows I like them.”

“Ah, Walburga’s defected cousin that’s engaged to one of the red-headed Muggle-loving Weasleys.”

“His name is Septimus,” said Hermione tightly. “And Walburga and her family are not even half the person that Cedrella is.”

Tom snorted uncharacteristically. “I believe you there.”

Deep down, Hermione took some kind of sick pride in hearing Tom say Walburga wasn’t kind, but who thought she was anyway?

“Let’s just go,” groaned Hermione, heading for the door. They joined a gaggle of Slytherin students ascending the staircase.

They definitely got some strange looks, as they were clearly older and not Hogwarts students, but some of the older students showed recognition, and most of the girls stared with mouths agape at Tom. It was strange, walking at his side while he got so much attention. Tom looked right at home though, like he’d never left Hogwarts. He acted like he didn’t notice any of the stares, but Hermione knew it was a façade.

The Great Hall was beginning to steadily fill with students when Tom and Hermione entered. Professor Slughorn immediately waved them over. Many of the professors were in their seats, talking with their colleagues over bowls of porridge. The Headmaster was not there, but Hermione immediately recognized Professors Dumbledore, Beery, Kettleburn, and Babbling.

“Your Head of House looks happy to see you,” said Tom quietly. Indeed, Professor Dumbledore was bestowing a wide smile on Hermione, who was grinning herself.

Hermione ignored the slight mocking in his tone and bounded up the few stairs to greet her favorite professor.

“Professor Dumbledore!”

“Miss Granger! What a delight it was to hear Horace had invited you and Mr. Riddle here for the day. Hello, Tom,” said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling. He was wearing robes of eccentric magenta, which clashed marvelously and horribly with his graying red hair. it had grown down to his shoulders now.

“Professor Dumbledore,” said Tom, rigidly inclining his head with a polite smile.

“Hello Professor Babbling,” said Hermione, greeting the older witch on Dumbledore’s left. She had been the Ancient Runes teacher, Hermione’s favorite subject. Tom greeted her as well.

“How have you both been?” asked Dumbledore conversationally.

“Horace told me you took an apprenticeship with Hermione’s father,” said Professor Babbling.

“I am doing well, sir, and yes I have. It has been a truly illuminating experience. I feel lucky to have Mr. Granger’s expertise, as well as Hermione’s,” he added. “She helped us uncover a breakthrough in our research on Dragonpox just weeks ago.”

Hermione was surprised that he would go out of his way to compliment her, and the look she gave him probably looked as stunned as she felt.

“How inspiring,” said Dumbledore airily, his wise eyes moving between Tom and Hermione. “Knowledge does not come from outside, after all, but from within.”

A smile stretched across Hermione’s face while Tom’s features became stoic once more. She had always loved Dumbledore’s strange way with words. He was a very…odd sort of fellow when he wanted to be, but she doubted there was anyone more powerful or brilliant than him.

They chatted for a few minutes more, Hermione about _Secondhand Tomes_ and Tom about _Borgin and Burkes_ , but eventually they moved down the table and greeted Professors Beery and Kettleburn of Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. They were just about to take their seats next to Slughorn when Hermione heard someone call her name.

A young girl with brown hair and fierce eyes was dashing towards her from the Gryffindor table. Hermione recognized her immediately.

“Minerva!”

Hermione skipped down the stairs. Minerva McGonagall was her boss, Robert Ross’s niece. Minerva had been helping her uncle at _Secondhand Tomes_ the day it had opened and had greeted Hermione when she entered the new bookshop. She had remembered Minerva from her duties as Head Girl. The first years always needed an extra eye on them, but Hermione had always remembered Minerva being self-sufficient and brilliant from the first day at school.

“How are you?” asked Hermione, hugging the girl quickly. She was nearly as tall as Hermione, if only a third year, and her hair was swept back in a low bun.

“I am well,” said the girl curtly. “Professor Slughorn said we were going to have a guest in the classroom today. Is it you?”

“It is me, and my friend Tom,” said Hermione motioning over her shoulder to where Tom sat. Calling him a friend truly left a foul taste in her mouth, but Minerva was young, and Hermione knew she should come across as friendly as possible with Tom in front of the students.

“I remember him from my uncle’s store that day, too,” said Minerva.

Yes, Hermione recalled that day very well. She wondered what Minerva would have done if she had come upstairs to witness Tom threatening her against the bookshelves with promises of Legilimency if she did not tell him the truth about her necklace. As if _she_ had known herself yet.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” said Minerva, smiling and turning back to her House table.

Hermione snickered as she took her own seat at the end of the table next to Tom.

“What’s funny?” he asked, scooping eggs onto his plate.

“That girl - she’s my boss’s niece - is so stern and curt even at thirteen years old,” said Hermione with a smile. “She would probably make a good professor one day.” Tom hummed and passed her the eggs, diving into conversation with Slughorn next to him.

Breakfast was so delightful that Hermione did not want to leave. The warmth and happiness radiating from the Great Hall was intoxicating, and Hermione missed being a student. Still, it was fun sitting with the professors. They all talked academia for nearly an hour, and Hermione was still humming from an intellectual debate with Professor Kettleburn about house-elf rights when the bell rang, signaling the first period. Most of the professors had dipped away a few minutes before to set up their classrooms, but Slughorn didn’t seem to mind biding his time.

He walked slowly and briefed Tom and Hermione over the first lesson. The NEWT students were going to begin brewing Amortentia next week and they were to follow along with Hermione and Tom’s own brew today for practice. When they reached the classroom, most of the students seemed to be there. The Head Boy, Angus Rowle, was sitting up at the front table with another Slytherin girl and boy, and offered a smile when they walked in.

Hermione and Tom stood at Slughorn’s desk as he wrangled in the students, ordering them to take out their books, parchment, ink and a quill.

“I’m beginning to think this was a horrid idea,” said Hermione, looking around at the classful of students. They were innocent teenagers, really, but their bright eyes looked up at her expectantly and almost judgmentally, and it was intimidating.

“Why?” said Tom. “Worried I’ll out-brew you?”

Hermione scoffed. “Didn’t you hear Slughorn? We’re brewing _together_ and demonstrating for the class. If you try to out-brew me, your _partner_ , you’ll muck everything up.”

Tom just hummed under his breath quietly and looked out into the wave of students. How did he do that and look so confident? Hermione was the opposite, shying away from the young pairs of eyes as Tom stared back at them shamelessly.

“Well, now that we’re all here, let’s begin!” boomed Slughorn, his voice rattling the jars of potions ingredients on the shelves. “Students, this is Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger, two Hogwarts alumni and the brightest students to pass through these halls. Do you want to introduce yourselves a bit more?” Slughorn directed this to Hermione and Tom. Hermione felt her cheeks go red, but Tom simply cleared his throat and spoke as if he had already prepared a speech.

“My name is Tom, as Professor Slughorn said. I was a Slytherin prefect and Head Boy at Hogwarts and recall some of your faces, although many of you have grown nearly as tall as me now.” This earned several laughs around the classroom, most of which were girlish giggles. Hermione’s lip curled, not finding his comment funny at all. Tom smiled silkily and continued: “I currently work as a sales assistant at _Borgin and Burkes_. School prepared me extremely well for this position, and especially for the potions apprenticeship I have recently taken with the renowned potioneer Hector Dagworth-Granger.” There was some excited shifting around the room and a few glances at Hermione. “I have come today to teach you what I have learned, but furthermore hope to inspire you all to take Potions seriously and excel in your studies, for it will come in handy in whatever career your future hold.”

Tom paused and turned to her expectantly. Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I’m Hermione Granger. Er - I hope you all are well. I was a Gryffindor at school, and Head Girl so I recognize many of you as well,” she added with a smile to a blushing Angus Rowle in the front row. “I’m no potions apprentice like Tom, here, but I _have_ learned much from my father. Not only did Professor Slughorn’s class prepare me to help my father in his lab, but it has aided me in everyday life as I hope it will you as well.”

Vaguely, she realized she could’ve said more on the subject, like how potions helped her in her job or research projects at home, but she had been speaking so quickly through her flushed cheeks that it had turned her brain fuzzy. Besides, Slughorn was speaking once more, giving directions to the students on the plans for the day.

Hermione and Tom began setting up their station as Slughorn gave a brief, twenty-minute lecture on the process and effects of Amortentia.

“Today, Tom and Hermione will be starting their own brew of Amortentia,” Slughorn said as his lecture came to a close. Tom simultaneously lit a low flame under their cauldron. “The brewing time is nine days, as I have already said, and again, there are two parts to the brewing process. Tom and Hermione will demonstrate part one today. It is of course a very complex brew and essential that you pay close attention to every move they make, which is why I would like you to take notes. I will come around and answer any questions you may have about the potion, but in the meantime, feel free to ask Tom or Hermione about their experience with potions outside of Hogwarts. Their goal here today is to help me walk you through each step.”

Hermione smiled out into the rows of students, motioning for Tom to hand her the bottle of Standard Potioning Water.

“Very well, then,” boomed Slughorn, clapping his hands together. “Pick up your quills, students, and Tom and Hermione will begin! Don’t be shy if you have questions for any of us.”

A girl at the nearest table to Hermione and Tom’s station raised a hand. “Sir, will we be brewing Amortentia with a partner as well?”

“Yes, you will, Miss Cleburn,” said Slughorn. “Moonstone is a key ingredient and very hard to come by and so we must brew it in less quantity.”

Tom nudged Hermione with his elbow, and she glared up at him. “What?” she hissed quietly so the students wouldn’t hear; the girl had asked another question about their upcoming assignment next week, reminding Hermione somewhat of her own self. She had always wanted to plan and work ahead for future assignments as well.

“You forgot to grab the flowers,” whispered Tom.

Hermione shot him a poorly concealed look of annoyance but smile brightly when she realized a few students were looking at her instead of Slughorn, who was giving a detailed explanation of how their assignment would be carried out over the following next two weeks.

“You were supposed to grab them,” Hermione huffed, but walked over to the shelf and grabbed a tin labeled _‘Peppermint Flower’._

“Shall we start then, Tom? Hermione?” Slughorn was asking now, standing at the back of the classroom.

“I believe we’re ready, sir,” said Tom, and so class began.

Hermione detailed how much Standard Potioning Water she had poured into the cauldron, and why that certain amount would set the precedent for the rest of the potion. Tom, next, began cutting off and bruising the flower heads with a mortar and pestle.

“Why is there such a low flame for this potion?” asked a boy in the back of the class.

Tom smiled and looked up from his work. “Amortentia cannot be brought to a boil until the fifth step. Surely some of you recall what Professor Slughorn has said about the Rule of Oxium?”

Hermione watched him silently demand his own control over the classroom; Slughorn beamed at the back of the room as several hands shot up into the air. Tom nodded his head at one of the students.

“The Rule of Oxium…” echoed a girl in Hufflepuff colors. “Doesn’t that refer to the dissolution of certain ingredients in certain temperatures?”

“Generally, and basically speaking, yes,” said Tom silkily. His forearms were flexing from grinding the flower heads, on display for all the females in the room since he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Here, it applies to the Powdered Moonstone, which we will apply towards the end. Until then, we’re dealing with very delicate ingredients. Remember next week to keep your water lukewarm until step four. If you do not, the potion will be ruined almost immediately.”

“Have you ever ruined a potion?” asked Angus Rowle. Tom, Hermione and Slughorn chuckled.

“Several times,” said Tom.

“Though not in my class,” said Slughorn proudly.

“Is your apprenticeship hard?” asked the Hufflepuff girl again.

“Immensely,” said Tom, passing the mortar of ground peppermint flower heads to Hermione.

“I’ll be adding these now,” announced Hermione. “Sprinkle the crushed peppermint flower heads in pinch by pinch, and then stir three times clockwise. Make sure they are in very fine pieces, practically dust or resembling the look of sand.”

The classroom fell into silence as students scribbled down notes with their quills.

“I actually find that stirring the flower heads once by every pinch offers the best results,” said Tom, taking the mortar back from Hermione rather abruptly.

“Oho!” cried Slughorn. “A tip from the genius himself!”

Hermione shot Tom a glare. “You’re the expert,” she hissed, and let him carry out his own instructions.

“Have either of you ever taken Amortentia?” asked a Slytherin girl. Tom and Hermione looked up from their station.

“I have not,” said Tom, “but someone close to me once did.”

As Hermione stirred the cauldron with the ladle, she wondered who Tom was speaking of and if she knew that person, since they shared so many of the same friends.

“I haven’t,” said Hermione when the class looked at her expectantly. “I highly advise all of you to approach Amortentia with caution.” Slughorn and Tom nodded in agreement. “It should not be used lightly, and it shouldn’t be smuggled into your crush’s pumpkin juice,” she added.

Her comment earned a few laughs. As Tom sprinkled in the last of the flowers, he smirked down at her.

“I bet you considered doing that to me during your brief schoolgirl crush,” he whispered for only her to hear.

Hermione pretended like she didn’t hear him, pulling twelve peppermint leaves off the stem of the flowers, but she mumbled back, “You _wish,_ though I think your heart too cold to even be tricked by a love potion.”

She heard Tom stifle a snicker before he announced, “I’m going to check the water now. It is important to do so as you complete the first five steps. If it is too hot or too cold, its best to realize it and start over sooner rather than later.”

There were a few minutes of silence as Hermione and Tom prepared the next step and the students caught up on jotting down every recommendation they had mentioned so far. 

“What does Amortentia smell like to you, Tom?” asked a giggling Gryffindor girl. The other girls dropped their quills and looked at him excitedly.

“Probably like yourself,” whispered Hermione, and she didn’t think Tom stepping on her toes a second later was an accident.

“Amortentia has an adaptive scent,” said Tom importantly, “which appeals to the preferences of whomever inhales it. I smell dusty books, rain, and lavender.”

Hermione watched as the Gryffindor girl perked up and the others deflated. She whispered something to her friend and Hermione caught the word ‘perfume’.

“I do not think it is always necessarily what attracts us, as many seem to think,” continued Tom. “Instead, I interpret it as, again, a preference that perhaps could be shared with someone else. I spend a lot of time with books, I favor rain over sun, and I spend hours every week with potions ingredients, one of which is lavender. Instead of attraction, they are material things I enjoy, or smells I prefer.”

The class was hanging onto his every word; not even Slughorn was making a noise. Hermione looked away from him and began adding whole peppermint leaves to the cauldron. Very quietly, she interrupted the conversation to give instructions, but no one seemed to care. The girls around the room seemed to be quietly deciding to buy new lavender-scented perfume and read more books.

“What about you, Hermione?” asked Angus Rowle at the front table.

“I smell…” she began but trailed off. “It’s been a while since I’ve been around Amortentia. I believe I smell parchment and…and freshly mown grass. Perhaps it would be different now,” she said, thinking distinctly of her budding romance with Abraxas and the sandalwood cologne his dress shirts always smelled of.

“There is not much of a system to the peppermint leaves,” said Tom a few moments later. “Just drop them in and stir until dissolved. Unfortunately, though, they won’t dissolve as quickly as the fine flower heads in the warm water, so be prepared to stir for twenty minutes or more.”

He snatched the ladle from Hermione’s side of the table and began stirring.

“What exactly does the peppermint do in the potion, Professor Slughorn?” asked a Ravenclaw boy.

As Slughorn answered this question and that, Hermione and Tom took turns stirring the peppermint leaves in silence until they dissolved. Class continued rather enjoyably for Hermione. The NEWT students were bright and eager to learn, and the class was fun since Slughorn was so laid back with the seventh years. Hermione and Tom walked them through the rest of the Amortentia potion until class ended, when they covered it with a silk cloth and set it aside for Slughorn to continue brewing throughout the next nine days. Mostly, the students asked Tom about his apprenticeship, which he was perfectly happy to talk about.

He had much more to offer the students in the way of potions intellect than Hermione, and really, she felt quite useless next to Tom. She hated to admit it, but he was a natural at the front of a classroom. She had always wondered why someone so bright as Tom would have taken a job at _Borgin and Burkes,_ but now the question pegged at her mind even more. He was brilliant, a natural leader, and very good with the students. She wanted to ask him why he chose such a measly career, but knew it would offend him.

Tom seemed to settle into his role even further with the third years after a quick lunch in the Great Hall. Minerva McGonagall, among her fellow Gryffindor and Hufflepuff peers, had come into class early that afternoon eager to learn. The class was shorter and busier than it had been with the seventh year NEWT students. The third years didn’t have a double-blocked period like the seventh years, so it was a quick hour, but the students were each individually brewing a Shrinking Solution and other than Minerva and one other Hufflepuff, they weren’t especially skilled.

Hermione and Tom left third year Potions quite knackered. The students had required a lot of help and maintenance, and Hermione herself had probably administered ten clean-up charms all on her own. Slughorn bid them a good day and promised to catch up with them at dinner. He had two other classes to teach throughout the afternoon, all of which would be lectures he insisted he did not need their assistance for.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Tom retreated back to their room to freshen up. Hermione collapsed onto the couch by the fire in their common room the moment they returned and was surprised when Tom sat down on the other side.

“That was interesting,” said Tom.

“It sure was,” said Hermione, reclining into the couch with a small yawn. “You’re kind of a natural, you know.”

“Naturally,” drawled Tom to a roll of Hermione’s eyes. “I tried to take a position at Hogwarts after I graduated.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot upwards and she turned to look at him. “Tried?”

“Headmaster Dippet said no. I wanted Merrythought’s position.”

“I _would_ say I don’t understand why they didn’t hire you…” said Hermione carefully, “but maybe you didn’t fool everyone at this school after all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom stared at her sharply.

“That you have an interest, although _purely_ academic _of course,_ in the Dark Arts. Maybe Dippet saw that.”

“No one saw that,” said Tom firmly.

“I did.”

“Because you can essence bond, not because you were not fooled by me.”

“I was _never_ fooled by you,” snorted Hermione.

“And yet you harbored a crush on me just like everyone else,” said Tom somewhat mockingly.

Hermione sat up and matched his stare, her eyes narrowed. “I was _attracted_ to you, as was every girl, yes, but I never flaunted myself around you, did I? I never sought to get your attention like the other girls.”

“ _Was_ attracted? Or are you still?”

Hermione’s eye twitched from how unblinkingly hard she was glaring at him. Why would he ask such a thing? Didn’t he know that she was? How could he not think so? For the last month, at least since the ball, Hermione had figured they both were attracted to one another. That much was obvious, really, as they were both attractive young people. Why couldn’t it stay obvious? Obvious, and unspoken. But his arrogance made him want to hear it.

“That is _very_ inappropriate, Mr. Riddle,” said Hermione tartly.

Tom stared at her for a moment and then burst into laughter. “Back to ‘Mr. Riddle’ now, are we? It was just a question.”

Hermione crossed her arms. She hated when he laughed; he looked so very beautiful. “A very out-of-character question.”

“One that you already gave me the answer to by avoiding said question.”

Hermione spluttered and scoffed. This conversation had truly taken an unexpected turn. “I did no such thing. I merely said it was inappropriate.”

“And why is that?”

“B-Because… Because I am…”

“Because you are seeing my friend?”

Hermione’s looked at him, surprised. That actually wasn’t what she had been planning to say. She had completely forgotten about Abraxas, which made her feel guilty. “You know about Abraxas?”

“I’m no fool, Hermione. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I was aware I interrupted something last Saturday at Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione sat back into the couch cushions, surveying Tom as he crossed an ankle over his knee and lazily turned his head to look at her.

“Abraxas said you’ve encouraged his feelings for me,” said Hermione matter-of-factly.

“I have.”

Hermione stood abruptly. “Then you shouldn’t be concerned with whether I am attracted to you or not.” She took a few steps towards her bedroom, but Tom’s antagonizing chuckles made her stop and turn an icy glare on him once more for final measure.

“No offense, _Miss Granger,_ but everyone is attracted to me…obviously even you. So perhaps it is Abraxas that should be concerned.”

Hermione was baffled. Utterly stunned. She clearly did not know Tom well in any aspect, but this blunt flirtation seemed out-of-character. He was deliberately mocking her. Tom had always seemed one for the subtle untoward gestures like kissing her knuckles or slipping his hand just _slightly_ lower on her back when they danced. _This,_ what he had just said, was bold and even slightly threatening. Abraxas had _no_ reason to be concerned, and it was cruel and wrong of Tom to say so. Abraxas would never have to worry about Tom, because Tom was a self-righteous, evil and twisted man. But perhaps Abraxas, unknowingly, _did_ have cause for concern, because as soon as Hermione slammed her bedroom door shut on Tom’s presence, she longed to be near him again. _Her magic_ longed to be near him again.

The entire day had been a comfort to Hermione because she had been around Tom for the entirety of it. Her magic, the curse, had been sated and she had felt _fine,_ normal. But now, only a room away from him, her magic reached like a loose cord towards him, and anxiety balled in her chest.

Her reliance on Tom was frightening, yet what would she do without him? Hermione was stuck in a horribly cruel juxtaposition. Tom was her biggest threat and biggest ally. He was in the perfect position for an enemy to be in, and she in the worst. For a moment, as Hermione collapsed onto her bed, she felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. No, a mouse caught by a snake, was perhaps more fitting. Either way, she felt utterly ensnared by Tom Riddle, completely at his mercy.

Was he truly helping her? Did he believe in breaking her curse? Was he doing her more harm by being around her? Deep down, Hermione thought she already knew the answers. _Of course_ it was doing her more harm to be around _him_. Perhaps Tom didn’t even know it would happen in the beginning, but his magic _was_ dark, and therefore feeding her curse. And yet, he helped her research, found her answers, and gave her hope. She needed that. Hope was the only thing keeping her sane. Lately Hermione often wondered that, if she were of weaker mind, the curse would be affecting her much quicker and stronger than it was. But it hadn’t, not yet, and the majority of that was due to Tom’s help and how he had taught her to control her magic. So, what was he playing at?

Perhaps it was all a game, Hermione thought. Again, she was in the perfect position for him, wasn’t she? Caught in between trust and distrust, torn over receiving his help, even if it slowly worsened her condition. She really was trapped. Tom Riddle had the upper hand. He was the puppeteer in all things, Hermione was inclined to believe, but he wouldn’t be with her. She would take back the strings today. Tonight.

Hermione did what she did best: she planned. After the dinner feast, she would retreat to the library and hope that Tom would not follow her. Her goal was to continue her research on famous Parselmouths in wizarding history. She thought she may have already exhausted the most infamous Parselmouth, Salazar Slytherin, but there was no better place to double check than the vast Hogwarts library. Hermione was sure that an answer, even if a small one, lay with Tom’s affinity for Parseltongue. Hermione had always been a firm believer that not all Slytherins were bad. It was utter rubbish, really, and Gryffindor was the worst at defaming the House. Her own father was a Slytherin, and a good man.

Parseltongue had a notorious reputation for being a staple of darkness and evil. If the trait was passed along, must everyone born from it be evil? Hermione didn’t think so. Still, there was basis in the snake language’s reputation, and after what she had learned about Tom and the former lover that he _tortured_ , she suspected it to be true. Tonight, Hermione would search for answers in the Hogwarts library just as she had done countless times before. She was confident she would find the answers she needed, too. There were few things Tom had ever admitted or told her before: his blood status, his ability to speak Parseltongue, and his interest in ‘studying’ the Dark Arts. Hermione intended to find the _real_ truth behind each admittance before she went after answers for matters that she had only speculated upon.

Before dinner, and after planning her trip to the library, Hermione napped and bathed. She put on a nice set of robes for the occasion and it seemed Tom had decided to as well. When she entered the living room two hours after storming out of it, Tom was exactly where she had left him, sitting at the far end of the couch, albeit with black robes on instead of his slacks and Slytherin vest. She quickly decided she preferred him in the latter.

“Shall we?” asked Tom the minute she stepped out of her bedroom.

The Great Hall smelled delicious the moment they entered. The students were loud and boisterous, especially at the Gryffindor table, chatting about their day over the scrapes of plates and clinks of silverware. Headmaster Dippet sat at the high table with the other professors and greeted Hermione and Tom for the first time that day. They talked for a few minutes before finding their seats next to Slughorn at the end of the table.

The evening was jovial and the conversation stimulating. The wine continued to flow, and Hermione’s voice was hoarse from talking and laughing so much. As a student not even two years ago, she would have never considered her professors to be such good company. Tom laughed more than she had ever seen him, but most of it was plainly fake to her. Hermione, though enjoying herself, was eager for the night to finish so she could sneak away to the library. So, when Dumbledore finished his tale on his recent interaction with merpeople in the Black Lake, Hermione stood gratefully and patiently hung about as everyone bid each other goodnight. The students had long ago deserted the Great Hall for bed, so Hermione and Tom took off between the empty tables, leaving Professors Slughorn and Beery in conversation behind them.

“That man can talk all night,” mumbled Hermione as they passed into the Entrance Hall.

“Apparently all of them can,” said Tom, glancing up into the clock tower that pointed at half past eight

When they came to the stairs, Hermione simply kept walking along the corridor towards the library.

“Where are you going?” asked Tom, his foot on the staircase.

“To the library,” said Hermione nonchalantly, looking back at him.

Tom snorted but said nothing else, so Hermione kept walking. Before she turned the corner, she glanced back to see that Tom had not descended the stairs towards the dungeons but was climbing them towards the second floor. She thought nothing of it. Surely, he had his own intentions of spending his evening elsewhere in the castle, just as she did.

The Hogwarts library was just how Hermione remembered it. Vast, dimly lit, with endless stacks of books, tall glass windows, and comfortable tufted chairs tucked away in the corners. There were several students littered about the tables and chairs towards the front, studying silently before curfew. Bertha Wineswabble, the new librarian that Hermione had met at lunch earlier that day, was tending to a nearby shelf. She was newly hired, a young girl in her late twenties that had graduated several years before Hermione.

“Hi, Bertha,” greeted Hermione in a low whisper. The girl turned to her, her harsh black eyes softening only slightly when she realized Hermione wasn’t a student.

“What can I do for you Miss Granger?” asked Bertha professionally.

“I was hoping to get a bit of research done while I’m visiting. May I have access to the restricted section if necessary?” asked Hermione hopefully.

“Of course. I don’t see why not,” answered Bertha promptly, and returned to her process of re-shelving a rolling cart of books.

“Thanks,” said Hermione with a smile, trying not to giggle at how serious the young woman was.

Hermione immediately set off for the restricted section, knowing that she would have better luck there finding books related to the rather taboo topic of Parseltongue. She quietly opened the iron gate that separated the obscure corner of the library from the rest of it. An older student that Hermione recognized from the NEWT potions class passed her as she stepped inside, a permission slip in their hand. They shared a smile and the seventh year closed the gate to the restricted section behind her. Hermione looked around, a smile on her face, palms rubbing together excitedly. She would start with double-checking the topic of Salazar Slytherin, and then read up more on known Parselmouths.

The books were listed by category, and then by author, just as Hermione organized her own books and advised Robert Ross to do in _Secondhand Tomes._ She immediately disappeared into an aisle labeled _‘Dark Wizards in European History’._

_Perfect,_ Hermione thought. She didn’t know any specific author, so for ten minutes she scanned over the book bindings, looking for any mention of Salazar Slytherin. She was nearly ready to give up and simply peruse the language section when she found a small green book titled, _‘Salazar Slytherin: The darkest facts about the Founder that you never heard’._

“There you are,” hissed Hermione, plucking the book off a shelf and looking for a place to sit. One of the most important rules in the library was that books from the restricted section should _never_ leave it. Hermione found a familiar window seat at the back and settled in, pulling her knees to her chest and tucking her robes under her feet. She perused the book’s table of contents and found exactly what she needed: _Chapter Four: Parseltongue, the language of Salazar Slytherin._

It almost seemed too easy to Hermione as she flipped eagerly to chapter four and began to read:

_Salazar Slytherin had many secrets that will never be known to mere mortals today. Few were even known by his closest friend, Godric Gryffindor. Yet, there was one secret that Salazar deemed too worthy to keep: he was a Parselmouth. In circa 1053, Salazar was believed to have written,_

_‘Mine greatest pleasure is the talent of speaking with snakes. I receive no ranker understanding of this world than to communicate with its living beings at mine bidding, and I shall pass on this greate honor to mine descendants.’_

_Parseltongue is the language of serpents, characterized by precise and serpentine hissing sounds when spoken. Normal people cannot understand it, but the language may be learned to some degree unknown. Parselmouths are solely defined by those that inherit the affinity for the language. Apart from merely communicating with any serpentine lifeforms, Parselmouths may also influence the will of serpents and communicate with other human beings that speak in their tongue._

_It is widely known that Slytherin’s descendants were Parselmouths. Parseltongue is an exclusively hereditary trait, and Salazar Slytherin was the only widely known Parselmouth in Wizarding Great Britain._

Hermione froze, her finger marking the page. Slytherin was the _only_ Parselmouth in Great Britain? But surely there were more? More in Europe, too, that Tom could be descended from. No…he couldn’t be related to Salazar Slytherin. Her stomach churned with the realization.

“Actually…he could,” she whispered to herself, her head reeling. Tom could speak to snakes…obviously. He had even said he had been sorted into Slytherin House before the Sorting Hat even touched his head… But surely _anyone_ with the proper traits…

Hermione brought a trembling hand to her mouth. It made sense, didn’t it? And yet there were so many things that didn’t add up, or they _did,_ and she just couldn’t believe it. She pressed on, determined to keep reading. Her fingers swept down the page, turned it, until she saw a page break with a subtitle that read,

**_ The Chamber of Secrets  _ **

_During the 11 th century, the friendship between the Hogwarts founders began to dissipate. Salazar Slytherin rightfully disliked enrolling students from the Muggle world, but Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw disagreed wholeheartedly. To purge the school of its sullied reputation for teaching Mudbloods, Slytherin allegedly erected a secret chamber below the Hogwarts grounds that would serve the purpose of ridding the school of its Muggle students. _

Hermione had heard of this, of course. It was an ancient legend, a myth that her father had told her at a young age. The school had been searched, he had told her, but nothing had ever been found, of course.

_The legend has lived on through the centuries, but it was Salazar Slytherin’s own claims of its existence that elicits a handful of believers. Legend says that Slytherin’s own worthy heir would open the Chamber of Secrets one day, releasing the beast that Salazar himself hid inside. The beast, although unknown, is widely believed to have been released within the Hogwarts walls multiple times. There is clear evidence, to those who believe in the Chamber of Secrets, that it has been opened more than once between its creation in the 11 th century. Every century there had been at least one student attacked and petrified, each time a Mudblood, but none killed. This suggests that Slytherin’s descendants have attempted to carry out the founder’s noble quest to purge Hogwarts of impure blood, though none were successful. _

Hermione was shocked to her core. She had _never_ heard of students being attacked at Hogwarts until it had happened at Hogwarts in her fourth year. But this book claimed students had been attacked _before_ , and allegedly from the secrets Chamber’s beast? Could the Chamber of Secrets _truly_ be real and not just a legend? Did anyone know of its existence? Did the professors? She quickly flipped to the front of the book and checked the print date: 1903

It was written before her fourth year, when two students were petrified, and poor Myrtle Warren killed by a third-year boy’s illegal Acromantula. Was the Acromantula the monster from the Chamber? Had the professors known and purposefully concealed it from the students and parents (which was understandable although wrong)? Maybe the attacks were purposeful, and not just an accident carried out by a foolish boy with a softspot for strange magical creatures.

But an Acromantula? A spider? It didn’t make sense. If Parselmouths could _control_ serpents, why wouldn’t the Chamber’s beast be a serpent?

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. Something didn’t add up. She read on:

_The most telling evidence of the Chamber’s existence was found in a journal in 1876. One entry, undated, barely legible, and signed by one Corvinus Gaunt, claimed that: ‘The school proposes a new plumbing system, jeopardizing my beloved secret. I shall carry out the next term concealing the entrance, but of how I cannot say…’_

Hermione continued reading the rest of the long chapter, but the words blurred together as her mind raced. Who was Corvinus Gaunt, and what was his secret? His journal entry sounded suspicious, but the story was _still_ myth, and believers would do anything to prove it. He could have been talking about _anything,_ truly, but Hermione’s gut told her otherwise. Her gut told her that the Chamber of Secrets was real, and that it was simply kept a secret to keep from scaring the students. If it was real, if a beast truly did live beneath the school for the reason of killing Muggleborns, surely the school would have been closed long ago. Parents wouldn’t dare to send their children. If it was real, it was kept a secret. The only ones who knew of its whereabouts were Slytherin’s heirs. Had this Corvinus Gaunt been one of them? Why had no students died before, if that was the intention? _But one did,_ Hermione thought, _after this book was published,_ and she had a way to talk to her.

Hermione practically threw the unauthored book back onto the shelf. It had been helpful, and Hermione left it and the library behind, suspecting the worst of her temporary roommate and magic teacher. He _could_ be the descendant of Salazar Slytherin… The idea provided obvious answers to many things, like why Tom could speak Parseltongue and why he was interested in the Dark Arts. _Why he tortured a classmate,_ added Hermione, although she supposed that not every descendent of Salazar Slytherin’s could have been evil; it was wrong to assume so, although she had a feeling it applied directly to Tom. Still, it didn’t mean he was a direct descendant of Slytherin…his _heir_. 

Hermione’s mind whirled. If he was, he could have opened the Chamber while they were at Hogwarts. But he had not. A Muggleborn girl had died, yes, but that boy, Hagrid, had been expelled for his careless behavior regarding his pet… Tom had never been named, never involved.

Was this Corvinus Gaunt a descendent? Or just a believer? Was he a direct heir? Tom had always said his wizarding family on his mother’s side was shamed and disgraced… Who were they? He had let on that he knew who they were, but he had never told her, because he said he was ashamed. Could his family be the Gaunts, or related to them through another name? Perhaps Tom’s father, the Muggle Riddle, was a squib and somehow related to Slytherin? Which surnames were tied to Salazar Slytherin’s line? Hermione knew that was her next step. Tom may be embarrassed of his family, but he was powerful because of their blood and she _needed_ to find out who they were. She needed the upper hand.

Her mind was racing so; it was as if she was simply going through the motions. Hermione didn’t even realize she was ascending the staircase until she stumbled on a trick step. She reached the second-floor landing and turned into the corridor without a second thought. Her nerves spiked as she saw the familiar door up ahead. Everyone avoided that room for a reason; its contents weren’t exactly _pleasant._ But Hermione pushed it open and strode into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom with purpose. It was empty, however, but Hermione had always been friendly to Myrtle when she had encountered the wailing ghost.

“Myrtle? Can you hear me? It’s Hermione Granger,” called Hermione, stepping past the sinks towards the cubicle that Myrtle favored. Sure enough, within seconds, water was leaking from under one of the stalls and a silvery figure came screeching out of the toilet bowl, shooting into the air and over the cubicles until it was floating above Hermione’s head.

“I remember you,” said Myrtle in a rather happier tone than usual. Hermione doubted she had many visitors.

“I’m visiting Hogwarts and wanted to see you again,” said Hermione, and Myrtle reminded her briefly of a praised house-elf when she whimpered, and tears filled her lifeless eyes.

“No one ever comes to see poor, moping, Moaning Myrtle,” whined Myrtle, floating towards the ground.

“I wanted to,” Hermione pressed kindly. “I wanted to see how death was treating you and…and ask how you died.” She only hoped this was the best route to take. Ghosts often enjoyed talking about their death, but Myrtle seemed different.

“Oooh,” she cooed sadly. Tears began trickling beneath her thick spectacles and Hermione cringed inwardly. “No one ever cares about Myrtle’s death… I died and it took the school hours to find me,” she cried. “I was invisible when alive and even when I died…no one cared to look for me.”

_And you’re especially invisible now,_ thought Hermione snidely as the sun trickled from a window through Myrtle’s spectral body.

“But no one asks me about how I died… It was a most terrible thing,” said Myrtle, smiling serenely now.

It was creepy, and Hermione tried to not look at the girl strangely, but she knew she was failing. She looked around the bathroom awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable, and said, “Tell me about how you died, Myrtle.”

“Oooh, ok,” said the girl, floating over to the windowsill and sitting down. “I died right there,” she grinned, pointing to her favorite cubicle.

“You just…died?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Myrtle. “It was very quick.”

“So, you don’t remember anything?” asked Hermione, trying not to appear disappointed.

“All I remember was great yellow eyes, right over there,” she said, pointing past Hermione towards the sinks.

Hermione glanced behind her uncomfortably. “Yellow eyes? How many?”

Myrtle giggled, a winging and choked sound, and then sighed once more. “I don’t know…”

“Were there eight eyes? Was it an Acromantula? Hagrid’s spider?”

Myrtle looked amused now, giggling once more. “Hagrid was nice to me. We had Care of Magical Creatures together. He was in my year.”

“So, you don’t think it was his fault?” asked Hermione. She was sad, wondering how two third years could get caught up in something so horrible.

“I don’t think he meant to kill me,” said Myrtle with a whimper, floating up and down slowly.

“So…” Hermione groaned to herself. “So that’s all you remember? Yellow eyes? Spiders don’t have yellow eyes, Myrtle.”

“No…” said Myrtle, seeming uninterested in the conversation now.

Hermione sighed and turned, walking over to the sinks that Myrtle had pointed at. She ran her fingers over the porcelain edge. What a strange place to attack a student, a bathroom…

“Myrtle, has Tom Riddle ever spoken to you?”

Just like any other girl, or apparently ghost, Myrtle burst into giggles. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He was the one who caught Hagrid. He came to visit my cubicle and apologize for my death.”

Hermione had whirled around, her eyes widening. “What do you mean he caught Hagrid?”

“He told Professor Dippet that I was killed by the monster Hagrid was keeping at the school.”

“ _Tom_ discovered it was Hagrid?”

“Yes,” Myrtle confirmed again. “He was very kind to me. Tom earned an award for ‘Special Services to the School’ but he said the professors kept it quiet, that I should keep it a secret between us.” Myrtle giggled again and Hermione wondered if ghosts could blush when two dark, silvery spots appeared high on the girl’s spotted cheeks.

Hermione was in a state of disbelief. “Why? Why keep it a secret?”

“I don’t know…” sighed Myrtle. “Tom said Professor Dumbledore didn’t want everyone to know the _dirty_ details,” she cooed, giggling. “But Tom told me. Tom trusts me…”

But Hermione wasn’t listening. She was too alarmed by the fact that Tom was involved at all. Why was he _always_ involved? The pieces were adding up now. Hermione didn’t think the monster was Hagrid’s Acromantula at all, not since Mrytle admitted she saw two yellow eyes. Spiders have eight eyes, though Myrtle hadn’t seen how many, but they’re _not_ yellow. Had Tom framed Hagrid? Had the Chamber of Secrets been opened, and a beast released that wasn’t a spider at all? Was Tom Riddle Slytherin’s heir?

Hermione didn’t even realize she had fled the bathroom until she heard Myrtle’s affronted wails echoing behind her. She heard the audible splash of Myrtle plunging herself back into the toilet but carried on towards the staircase.

How much did Tom trust her, Hermione wondered. Could she casually ask him about any of this, or was it dangerous? Asking would lose her the upper hand, but Merlin she had never wanted to learn the truth more in her life. Hermione descended the stairs, shoving a nervous hand continuously through her hair. She wanted the truth, but perhaps not from him. From him, it was dangerous; from her own research, it was strategic and rewarding.

No, she could _never_ speak to him of what she had learned. She had a terrible feeling that if he knew what she did, she would not live to see another day. He had lied to her. He had said his interest in the Dark Arts was purely academic, but no, he _practiced_ it. He tortured a girl, perhaps several more. Maybe he even killed Myrtle.

He thought he was such a good actor… Hermione smirked darkly as she descended into the dungeons. Well, _she_ had figured him out. She was nearly there.

When Hermione returned to the guest room several minutes later, Tom was nowhere to be found. This was a blessing in disguise, except Hermione’s anxiety had her heart racing; racing with the information that she had just uncovered, but also because she had been away from Tom for over two hours now.

She retreated to her rooms and readied for bed. For a while, she sat in bed with a book, but her mind was far, far away. She repeated the same questions to herself, mulled over the same information, repeated the same suspicions.

He was smart, much smarter than her, and so it seemed impossible that she would ever find out the truth. Hermione picked him apart in her head, thinking of his weaknesses, what she could use against him once she discovered the whole story. Surely, he had weaknesses, as brilliant as he was. Perhaps Abraxas could tell her. Abraxas never gave her direct or full answers about Tom, and she had long ago stopped asking, but she could pose her questions casually, pretend she was befriending Tom and no longer had any qualms about him. But would Abraxas, or even Alfyn, know? It was unlikely Tom _ever_ let anyone see his weakness. Hermione wondered if she knew even more than Tom’s friends did. His family was a weakness. Hogwarts was a weakness, as she had discovered today. He was ashamed of the first and loved the latter, perhaps the only thing or place he had truly ever loved at all.

Hermione’s thoughts faded away, however, it a blurry cloud of thought, stored away for later. Her eyes were too heavy to stay open, and long after her breathing evened out, she succumbed to a dream:

_She was standing alone in a field wearing a long gown of white. She looked down at herself. Dry grass crunched beneath her feet, which were alarmingly stained in blood. So was her dress. Hermione held it up in her hands, staring horror-struck down at the deep red stains. It wasn’t her blood. She didn’t feel hurt._

_“Hermione!” someone was calling her name. Hermione followed the voice. The sun was too bright. She couldn’t see. On one side of the field stood what appeared to be a group of people, but they were merely silhouettes with how bright the sun was. They appeared to be wearing white, but they were glowing yellow and gold themselves, the reflection of the sun bouncing off of them like a mirror. She couldn’t make out even one face._

_“Hermione!” a deep voice called from the group again. She thought it could be her father. Hermione took a step towards them, but something grabbed her arm. She gasped and turned towards the assailant, or at least she tried to, because she couldn’t move. A pale arm snuck its way around her torso, long fingers stretching along her waist and holding her possessively. There was a ring on one finger, a black stone in an immaculate gold setting. Familiar._

_She felt another arm wrap around her, fingers skimming over her breasts, across her collarbone. There was a firm body folded against her back now. Someone was breathing against her neck, burying their nose in her hair. Hermione looked down to the ring again, gasping as the finger it adorned moved across her breast, gentle and teasing. She recognized it now._

_“Tom?” she whispered, succumbing to pleasure, her head dropping on his shoulder. She looked up. She found she could move now. It was him, his eyes a deep blue, his dark hair a stark contrast against the clouds. He was wearing black, so different from her, but he was also covered in blood. His hands were leaving bloody fingerprints over her white dress. How had she not noticed before? Whose blood was it?_

_Tom left two handprints, dark red, almost black, above her breasts. She felt his slick, bloody fingers trailing across her chest, her collarbone, her neck._

_“Tom,” she moaned. His other hand was trailing down, down over her thigh, spreading her legs where she stood._

_“Hermione!” frantic voices were calling, but she ignored them. Nothing mattered now: not the blood, not the voices, not the strange place she was in. Only Tom mattered; Tom and the pleasure he was inducing._

_Her dress was suddenly bunched up around her waist. She was naked underneath. Tom’s fingers were trailing down her torso and Hermione was curling into him, gasping and writhing and moaning._

_“Tom, please,” she whispered. Her hands were dripping blood, but they wove through his hair, pulling his head down so he could kiss her neck._

_“Hermione!” The voices once more; a different one each time._

_“What do they want?” she sighed as Tom trailed fingers across her inner thigh, teasing her, making her want to beg again._

_“They want_ you, _Hermione,” said Tom in her ear. His voice was like silk. He tugged on the lobe of her ear with his teeth and Hermione arched into him. “But they can’t have you.”_

_“They can’t have me,” echoed Hermione, trying to chase his fingers with her writhing hips. She was so wet, so hungry. She desired him, needed him, terribly. Why wouldn’t he just touch her? His fingers danced around her inner thighs as if playing a tune. He held her tightly beneath her breasts, pulling her upper back firmly to his chest, almost painfully so, but it felt_ so _good._

_“They can’t have me,” said Hermione again, her head turning, angling up to him. He stared down at her, his fingers hovering over her core, burning and wet and ready. She reached for his lips, red and perfect, framed by his pale, structured jaw. She brushed her lips against his so lightly it couldn’t be considered a kiss. “I am already gone.”_

Hermione gasped and her eyes opened wide as saucers. She sat bolt upright, looking around wildly. She was back at Hogwarts. Her room was warm and dark and cozy. It was drizzling outside the window. There was no blood on her hands or feet, her white nightgown was clean. There were no fingers touching her intimately, no lips on hers, _Tom’s_ lips on hers.

“What the fuck,” Hermione breathed, swearing uncharacteristically. That was the second dream she had had about Tom, just as strange as the first, except this one…much more graphic. Why was she dreaming of him? She could still feel the brush of his fingers across her breasts, the firm but gentle push of his hands as he parted her naked thighs, the feel of his lips tasting her neck, suckling at her ear. Hermione pressed a hand to her chest, throwing back the covers.

It was the curse, she thought. It had to be. What else would make her want to dream about Tom? Her curse, her magic, practically thrived off of him at various times now. Was it driving her mad? Was he?

Worse, Hermione could remember the feel of sticky blood on her hands. Had she killed someone in the dream? Had Tom? Had they both…together? 

Hermione stood on shaking limbs, pulling on the kimono shawl that was sprawled at the end of her bed. She was thirsty and not likely going back to bed anytime soon. Hermione padded towards her bedroom door and opened it quietly. Directly across from her, Tom’s bedroom door was shut. It hadn’t been when she had returned from the library and Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom hours ago. Merlin…the library and Moaning Myrtle. Everything came rushing back to Hermione in a whirlwind and she squeezed her eyes shut, stepping out of her bedroom.

She immediately skidded to a halt. Tom was in the kitchen, awake, although it was probably in the early morning hours. His back was turned to her…his bare back. He was shirtless, green and grey plaid pajama pants hanging low on his slim hips. Hermione’s mouth went dry and she took in the planes of his back, rippling with muscle as he bent over the counter, though she couldn’t see what he was doing. The dream came back to her all at once, and for one terrible moment, Hermione felt aroused from the memory of it. Seeing _this_ surely didn’t help. She felt herself flushing. Just minutes ago, Tom had been touching her in a dream, teasing her and winding her up so well that she actually felt wound up now that she was awake.

There was something wonderfully strange about seeing Tom like this, though, in just his pajama pants with messy hair, no shirt and bare feet. He was broad shouldered, as Hermione had always suspected him to be, but his torso was slim, though not disproportionately. His arm was moving, a sinewy and pale arm, and Hermione heard the familiar clank of spoon against teacup. He was making tea.

The sound made her snap out of it and she took a step back with the intention of _fleeing_ back to her bedroom. But before she even had the opportunity, Tom turned around, teacup in his hand, and promptly sloshed it onto the floor as he jumped.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, staring widely at her.

Hermione took a sick pleasure in catching him off guard, in actually scaring him, although she didn’t want him to know she had been watching.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pretending she hadn’t been standing there for nearly a minute by padding into the kitchen. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not after that,” said Tom, his eyes surveying her for a moment. “You looked like a ghost standing there.”

Hermione became very aware that they were both staring at each other, taking in the strangely sleepy and ruffled state of each other. She brushed past him with the intention of handing him a towel to clean up the spill, but she saw his hand wave over the mess and magic it away.

“Sorry,” she mumbled again, trying not to snicker. She would’ve found humor in frightening the big, bad Tom Riddle, and she did, but she was too aware that she was in her nightgown. Thank Merlin she had put on her shawl, but he had probably already seen too much. He had caught her off guard as well. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders and crossed her arms, although this made things difficult since she was trying to make her own cup of tea.

“How was the library?” asked Tom, and Hermione was surprised when he leaned into the counter next to her, his ankles crossing. It was a normal, friendly gesture, but it was unnatural between them.

“Informative. I was there for a while,” said Hermione as calmly as possible, giving him the first wary glance of the night. “Where did you disappear to?”

“None of your business,” said Tom, smirking slightly. Hermione stirred her tea and watched him out of the corner of her eye. She did not like being this close to him when he was shirtless. His elbow was mere inches from hers and Hermione could make out the muscles in his arms even as he relaxed his back into the counter. She did the same, turning to face the open sitting room, her back to the counter and the raised, warm mug releasing steam against her lips.

“Did you do any exploring other than the library?” asked Tom suddenly and Hermione’s skin prickled. He was staring at her, emotionless and calculating.

She swallowed thickly and drank deeply from her tea. It burned and she suppressed a wince, but the question, and his tone, concerned her.

“No,” said Hermione silkily.

“Really? Because I checked the library only two hours after we parted ways and you weren’t there.” Tom said this with such mocking that Hermione immediately flushed in anger. She also flushed because she got caught and now had to think especially quickly on her feet.

“Stalking me now?” she smirked, hoping to give herself some time.

“Just curious why you’re lying to me.”

Hermione had no choice but to play the innocent card. “I was visiting Moaning Myrtle,” she said, and watched with concealed fear as Tom lowered his teacup onto the counter very slowly, his eyes hard on hers.

“Why lie about that?” he asked softly, crossing his arms. God, his arms… Hermione had always been attracted to a man’s arms, as strange as it sounded. There was something about the smooth skin, the light muscle definition, thick wrists leading down to big hands. She was staring again.

“I didn’t want you to make fun of me,” said Hermione smoothly, looking away from him.

“And what did you talk about?” His tone was suspicious, probing, and curious and Hermione swallowed thickly again.

“This and that,” she hummed, shrugging nonchalantly. “Myrtle likes to talk of her death,” she lied, “even though she remembers barely anything.”

“ _Barely_ anything?” echoed Tom, leaning towards her. Their arms brushed and Hermione blushed.

“Well, she _does_ remember something,” said Hermione silkily as an idea came to her. Tom’s eyes were narrowed, and he said nothing, silently commanding her to continue. “She said you were very kind to her afterwards, that you received an award from the school for finding that wretched boy, Hagrid, and his beastly creature.”

That was it… Tom’s eyes softened, and he straightened, his fists unclenching. This topic was too dangerous for her to act anything less than innocent and oblivious. She would throw him off her trail, for now, for she suspected he was heavy on her heels.

“I did receive an award,” said Tom, picking up his tea again.

“Why wasn’t it a public affair?”

“Not to say I didn’t want credit where it was due,” said Tom, “but the ordeal was ghastly. Dumbledore and Dippet wanted to keep it as quiet as possible.”

“But you saved the school,” said Hermione with a forced undertone of appreciation.

Tom glanced at her and quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, but Hagrid was already being expelled for his association with the creature. No one but me and the professors know the truth: that the fool knew his _pet_ was attacking the Muggleborns. If parents had heard that a fellow student was knowingly unleashing a beast on their children, they would want Hogwarts permanently closed. So, I told the professors of my discovery quietly, and I was awarded quietly, and Hagrid was expelled _quietly,_ albeit pitied by most for his rogue pet.”

Hermione had never hated anyone more than she did Tom Riddle in this very moment. She had no doubts that he framed Hagrid now. Tom seemed to find great pleasure in every word, and the irony of it had her feeling queasy.

_If parents had heard that a fellow student was knowingly unleashing a beast on their children…_ He had said it so full of disgust that Hermione couldn’t possibly believe he meant it.

“I see,” she hummed through gritted teeth, squeezing the life out of her teacup. Tom glanced over at her, staring calculatedly, and Hermione plastered a smile on her face that she hoped was believable. “Thank Merlin that’s all over. That year was horrible.”

“Indeed,” hummed Tom, and they both simultaneously raised their tea to their lips.

“Well, I’m sure we both need our sleep before tomorrow,” said Hermione, more than ready to escape Tom’s presence. “What time is it anyway?”

“Past two,” said Tom, setting his empty mug in the sink.

“When did you get back from _wherever_ you were?”

“Half an hour ago,” said Tom, pushing up to his full height beside her. Hermione straightened automatically and wondered what they must look like. It was almost laughable, really. They were enemies that undoubtedly had chemistry. They were friends, although they weren’t _truly_ , and anyone that looked close enough could surely feel the tension between them. Whatever this relationship Hermione had formed with him, it was a web of lies and mistrust.

That very notion led her to ask, “Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t want to,” said Tom simply, smirking when Hermione scowled. “I have my own ghostly friends I like to talk to.”

Hermione was curious but she didn’t dare press him further. Perhaps Tom was friendly with the Bloody Baron; no doubt they had plenty in common.

“I’m off to bed then,” said Hermione, sensing Tom had nothing else to say to her and she didn’t feel like asking. “I’m tired.”

“You should be, after the _very busy_ day you’ve had.”

Again, Tom sounded like he was mocking her. Hermione looked over at him, raising an eyebrow, and let her eyes drop to his fit chest as she kicked off the counter. Honestly, it was a pity that he was an evil git.

“Goodnight,” she said, moving past him when he stood to full height, staring down at her as if trying to be intimidating. After what she had discovered today, it worked.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” said Tom quietly.

Hermione retreated to her bedroom, feeling wary and scared. She had just spectacularly lied her socks off; yet, as she felt Tom’s eyes following her, she didn’t think she had fooled him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, my awesome readers, for not pressuring me about getting this chapter up! I hope it was worth it. I know MANY things happened in this chapter and your minds are probably whirling. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and please let me know your thoughts!
> 
> I don't think the next chapter will be up anytime soon, so for that I am sorry. Life has gotten in the way lately, and since this is just a hobby, I have to put work and school first! I've got a lot of studying to do, so I will be prioritizing that over Dealing in Temptation for the rest of the month. HOPEFULLY chapter 13 will be up in the next few weeks, but I'll make no promises for now. Once things calm down towards the end of the year, I will hopefully be returning to my more regular, weekly updates. 
> 
> Thank you all for the continuous support! xx El


	13. A Hogsmeade Weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever... Three weeks felt like three months to me, so I'm sure it did to you all! Here is 16k words and a ton of Tom/Hermione to make up for it!

“That’s it,” encouraged Hermione as a first-year girl stirred in the last of her potion’s ingredients. It turned the brewing Forgetfulness Potion a creamy white, Hermione noticed, as she peered over the Hufflepuff girl’s shoulder. “Professor Slughorn will be really happy with that. Let it stew, now.”

The young Hufflepuff beamed a gap-toothed smile up at Hermione before she moved on to the next student. The first years were a bright bunch and their progress throughout class had been rather impressive, but the second day at Hogwarts was sadly coming to a close. The bell was due to ring in five minutes, leaving Hermione and Tom with a free afternoon before returning home. Hermione planned to spend the remaining time at the castle down by the lake. It was a beautiful day since the rain had cleared, and although very chilly, was nothing a few warming charms couldn’t fix. She hoped Tom was planning a prompt return to London, so that she could spend the afternoon on her own or even peruse the library some more, but they hadn’t discussed their plans.

They hadn’t discussed much at all since the late-night run-in in their pajamas. There was undoubtedly a sense of awkwardness between them, though only on Hermione’s end since Tom was not one to show such meager emotional reactions. She had no clue what he thought of last night’s interaction, but it was all she could think about. Hermione had spent most of the day reprimanding herself every time her mind wondered to Tom’s shirtless figure, but it was pointless, really. He was handsome, and though she had stopped _denying_ it weeks ago, she couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was a normal female reaction, she told herself, but it didn’t quite justify her wandering thoughts. Damn him, truly, for being so good looking while harboring such dark secrets.

When Hermione wasn’t reprimanding herself for thinking of Tom’s bare arms and slender waist, she was feeling guilty for thinking about him and _not_ Abraxas. Hermione knew she and Abraxas were neither official nor courting, but they _were_ interested in becoming so, and what would he think if he had witnessed Hermione stumble upon a half-naked Tom in her flimsy nightgown? What would Abraxas think about her thoughts drifting to Tom’s smooth back and pale shoulders, instead of the kiss they had shared just days ago?

“That’s ready to be bottled,” said Hermione kindly to a young Slytherin boy.

She moved around the table to join Slughorn and Tom, who were chatting near the chalkboard by the professor’s desk.

“These children really are bright, Professor,” Hermione commended. 

“I was just telling Tom that exactly,” said Slughorn, beaming out into the tables of his students.

“We really are grateful for this opportunity, sir,” said Tom, and Hermione still found it so odd that they were here, _together,_ and he was speaking for the both of them as if they were friends, partners.

“It’s no bother at all,” said Slughorn, waving a meaty hand in the air. “I’m glad you got the chance to meet some of the students. Now you’ll know some friendly faces when you come back for the Christmas party!”

_Ah, yes,_ Hermione sighed, Slughorn’s Christmas party. This morning over breakfast, Slughorn had brought up the new improvement on his annual Slug Club Christmas dinner. Now, he planned to turn it into a grand bash, inviting some of his favorite alumni and Ministry connections as well as the Slug Club. He had invited Tom and Hermione, and they had agreed to stop by his party the eighteenth of December, the night before the students left for the holiday. Hermione begrudgingly accepted the offer, knowing it was yet another trip to Hogwarts with Tom, and so soon after this one.

“And how is Hector doing, Hermione?” asked Slughorn. “I saw him just last week at the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers meeting, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione, “he always talks very highly of your input in the society meetings.” Hermione continued to reassure Slughorn of her father’s good health and continuous work in the lab at home, but the bell rang, cutting her off.

The students scrambled to their feet and began shoving their books and potions equipment in their bags. Once they had all trickled out of the classroom, Tom and Hermione helped Slughorn stow away the bottled Forgetfulness Potions so that they could be graded.

“I trust you’ll be staying for dinner tonight?” asked Slughorn as a couple second years bustled into the classroom ten minutes later.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Hermione. “Are you sure you don’t need our help with the next class?”

“No, no,” said Slughorn, waving her off. “Go enjoy the castle, and I’ll see you both in the Great Hall around six.”

“Enjoy your afternoon then, sir,” said Tom, stowing away his wand and motioning for Hermione to lead the way through the row of tables.

Out in the corridor, Hermione and Tom joined the flood of students, some older and retreating to the Slytherin common room, and others making their way to class.

“I have enjoyed this,” said Tom conversationally, before scowling when a Slytherin student bumped into him.

“As have I,” said Hermione, and she really had. Assisting in the classroom was much more rewarding than her bookstore job. She longed to work at the Ministry, but the position she had originally hoped for had declined her application for lack of experience. She wanted to be an Unspeakable in their research department, and always had been, but just her NEWT scores weren’t enough. Now that she had experience at _Secondhand Tomes,_ she had a stronger application, but it was still only a bookstore. She enjoyed working in a classroom, she had realized these last two days, but Hogwarts wasn’t hiring.

_No one would hire a cursed, raving mad woman, anyway,_ Hermione told herself. But she wasn’t, not _yet._ Still, she was noticing a change in herself, one she didn’t like, one that scared her. More and more, especially in the last few days, she noticed her thoughts straying to the Dark Arts. She didn’t have the urge to hurt someone; _no,_ nothing that drastic…yet. But she _did_ have a strange urge to lose herself in the Dark Arts; to study and practice and learn and improve. The very same urges that Tom admitted he had.

“Hermione?” Tom was calling her, and she flinched. He had opened the door to their quarters and was standing inside, looking at her expectantly.

“Oh,” she mumbled and walked through.

“What are you planning to do with the rest of your day?” asked Tom as Hermione moved into the kitchen to make some tea.

“I thought I might take a walk by the lake,” said Hermione. “And you? Planning to sneak away to wherever you went last night?”

Tom chuckled and leaned against the counter as she put heat under the kettle. It reminded her of last night, standing beside each other in their pajamas, surprisingly relaxed but also on edge, sipping at their tea and trying to catch the other in a lie.

“I do not feel obligated to visit again,” said Tom and Hermione looked at him curiously.

“Visit who?” she asked nosily.

Tom smirked and looked for several moments as if he would ignore her and evade an answer, just like last night, but eventually he said, “You’re not the only one that befriended a ghost here, Hermione. Although I think my companion is much more tolerable than Moaning Myrtle.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” said Hermione, glancing towards the drain in the sink. “She spoke very highly of you.”

“They all do,” said Tom nonchalantly.

Hermione looked at him exasperatedly, unsurprised to find him looking quite serious and unperturbed, every bit the arrogant Head Boy persona. But then Tom cracked a charming smile, causing Hermione’s stomach to flip, and she realized he had made a joke. He was being _sarcastic._

How very uncharacteristic. Hermione just snorted and shook her head at him.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Tom.

“What?”

“May I join you on your walk about the grounds?”

“Oh…I - uh…” Hermione screamed internally. She didn’t want him to come; not at all.

“You can say no,” said Tom after a few awkward moments, looking annoyed. “But I thought we could fit in some practice if you have nothing better to do.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, but Tom didn’t especially look like he was giving her a choice either.

“Oh…oh, of course. I didn’t mean -”

“I’m sure I know what you meant,” said Tom, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stood and, silently, left her alone. She heard his bedroom door shut just as the kettle started whistling. Hermione sighed and took it off the burner, surprised by Tom’s reaction to her hesitancy. It wasn’t as if they were friends that regularly went on walks together. Why must things always be so tense between them?

As she sat at the kitchen table, sipping at her tea, Hermione reflected on what her relationship with Tom actually was. They didn’t know each other, not really, and they weren’t friends. Yet, they got on well, when she wasn’t focused on what an evil git Tom was (which was truly not as often as she _should_ be). He, for some constantly confusing reason, was helping her with her magic. They had danced together at the ball, always challenged each other intellectually, and now took a trip to Hogwarts together. And still, Hermione would never call Tom her friend. But was she his? She knew they must have very different descriptions of the term.

Hermione thought about the few times she had seen Tom interact with the people he supposedly called his ‘friends’: Abraxas, Alfyn, Walburga Black, and the other Slytherin boys that had been at the after-party on Hallowe’en. He was kind to them, but more polite than comfortable. He hadn’t always been kind to Hermione, but he treated her with more respect, she concluded suddenly. He engaged her in more conversation than she had ever seen him do with his friends. They bantered and joked every once in a while, if Tom was in the right mood; they made each other laugh. Tom respected her, she believed. He took her advice once in her father’s potions lab, and he always listened to her ideas during their lessons. He knew she was smart, and Hermione speculated that was something Tom most likely favored in his companions. He was too picky, too high maintenance, and demanded perfection in his own life, so why not demand it in his friends? What did he really think of his Slytherin friends? To Hermione, they had seemed a strange group. Tom, unsurprisingly, had seemed like the leader. Everyone else regarded him cautiously, stiffly, instead of friendly. Hermione remembered that night to be utterly confusing and…odd.

She tried not to think further into her relationship with Tom, because when she remembered every touch shared, every moment of flirtation or shared look, she felt overwhelmingly puzzled. They _definitely_ weren’t friends. But they weren’t more or severely less than that, either. They were just… _them._ They were acquaintances, but more so than acquainted strangers. They were vaguely attracted to each other, but Hermione would never act on it, because she knew what Tom was truly capable of, and she didn’t want any part of that. She was _already_ a part of it more than she wished to be, just because she knew him and spent time with him.

He was beyond nice to look at, but it didn’t matter, because it could never work. _And because of Abraxas,_ she reminded herself, and with a scowl Hermione reprimanded herself for once more forgetting the man she _should_ be thinking about.

Hermione found she was not especially thirsty after all and dumped out her tea. She glanced towards Tom’s closed door and wondered if she had ruined their unspoken, friendly truce during the Hogwarts trip. She couldn’t imagine that Tom would ever get offended, but he had certainly seemed like it when he had left her in the kitchen. Hermione decided that, whether he was still coming or not, she wanted to get outside and explore the grounds.

Inside her bedroom, she changed out of her stuffy robes and into a pair of tights, a long skirt, and a wool jumper. She laced her boots up quickly before stowing away her wand in the pocket of the cloak she wanted to wear. She glanced out of the window of her bedroom and saw the naked trees swaying on the grounds below. It was windy and would therefore feel much colder than it probably was. Hermione braided her hair in the classic French style down the nape of her neck before tucking a pair of gloves, scarf, and her cloak under her arm.

Out in the living room once more, Hermione was surprised to see Tom standing by the fire, with his cloak and a scarf in hand. He looked handsome in a grey jumper of his own, staring thoughtfully into the fireplace.

“Ready?” asked Hermione kindly, clearing the air. Tom glanced up at her, looked her up and down in that tantalizing way he always did, and nodded.

They left their quarters in silence together and made their way through the empty castle, up the stairs and into the Entrance Hall. They stopped and donned their cloaks and scarves before venturing through the tall oak doors. The air was as crisp as Hermione expected it to be, and the occasional breeze was biting cold on her cheeks.

“Bloody hell,” she heard Tom mumble as they descended the stairs towards the ground. She turned to look at him with an amused smirk; he was tightening his scarf around his neck, his hair blowing into his eyes.

The grounds were slightly less windy than the elevated entrance to the castle, and the dead grass crunched under their feet, most likely slightly frozen from the cold temperatures. For a long time, Hermione and Tom wordlessly roamed around the outskirts of the castle. It wasn’t awkward; they merely walked side-by-side and admired the view, both feeling very content to be back at Hogwarts.

“Have you enjoyed being back?” Hermione asked eventually when they had descended the hill towards the Black Forest. The distance offered a spectacular view of Hogwarts in its entirety, and they turned to take in the panorama.

“I have,” said Tom quietly, weaving his fingers through his hair so he could push it back off of his forehead. “It’s been…a much-needed break from reality.”

“Is your reality that exhausting?” asked Hermione.

Tom smirked slightly and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Sometimes.”

“What about it?”

“Why do you insist on asking me so many personal questions sometimes?”

Hermione flushed but chuckled when she saw his smirk did not falter and his words had no bite to them. “I am a nosey person sometimes,” she admitted.

“I have noticed,” said Tom. He turned on his heel and walked towards the lake, Hermione at his heels.

She hissed as a particularly long gust of wind rattled her bones. Tom, however, looked perfectly warm and unbothered.

“Would you ever consider answering one of those personal questions?” said Hermione a minute later. The lake looked cold and black in the distance, though it wasn’t iced over yet.

“Haven’t I before?”

Hermione fell into step with him and felt her shoulder brush his arm. “You have,” she admitted, “about the Dark Arts and your family.”

“You never asked questions about my family.”

“No, but you told me anyway.”

Tom stopped and rounded on her, though he neither looked annoyed or angry. “So, then you do not need to ask me personal questions when I willingly choose to tell you.”

_When you willingly lie,_ thought Hermione scathingly, but she merely smiled. “Which means you trust me,” she hummed, side-stepping him and continuing towards the lake. The crunch of grass behind her a moment later meant Tom was following.

“I trust no one, Hermione.”

She saw him beside her once more out of the corner of her eye. “You do not trust me, Tom?”

Tom looked at her, smile in place and eyes mischievous. “Professor Slughorn once told me to never trust a beautiful witch.”

Hermione’s frozen cheeks warmed with a blush and she looked away, staring at the approaching lake. Deciding to pretend like she didn’t hear, she chided, “You talked girls with Slughorn?”

Tom breathed an icy laugh, flashing white teeth in a smile. “ _Slughorn_ talked girls with _me._ I had no say in the matter.”

“Ah,” hummed Hermione, finding humor in the idea of a younger Tom cringing at Slughorn for even daring to speak to him of such things.

“I think he believes you and I are courting,” said Tom, flashing her a sly smirk.

“Does he?” asked Hermione, visibly mortified.

Tom hummed and chuckled at her reaction. “He at least wished it from the first time we spoke with him at the Hallowe’en Ball.”

“I did wonder if he had gotten the wrong impression, but… We should clear things up for him.”

Tom looked at her sharply, taking in her pinched nose and concerned expression. “Would it be so horrible to be with me?”

Hermione stumbled and glanced up at him. “What?” she breathed, flabbergasted.

“Would it really be so horrible if he believed us to be courting?” asked Tom again. “You look disgusted by the idea.”

“Because I am!” blurted Hermione without a single thought. She felt the blood drain from her face almost immediately, and worry flooded her for the harsh choice of words. Tom, suddenly, looked _deadly_. “I just mean…I just mean I’m with _your_ friend,” she said quickly, recovering. “Me and Abraxas.”

“Is that really your excuse?” asked Tom condescendingly.

“It’s not an excuse,” said Hermione firmly, “it’s the truth.” She hurried her steps and continued to the bank of the lake, which was only a few meters away now.

“Is it?” called Tom from behind her. A few moments later, he was standing at the bank by her side. A giant tentacle breached the dark water, which was rippling with icy-looking white caps, far in the distance.

“Is it what?” growled Hermione, crossing her arms.

“Is it the truth?” asked Tom. “You’ve been acting strange around me lately. Perhaps I misjudged the reason for it.”

“And what reason did you presume that to be?” said Hermione, thinking the worst. Perhaps she wasn’t as good an actor as she thought. Ever since she met that poor, obliviated girl in _Secondhand Tomes,_ Hermione had naturally felt very afraid and wary of Tom. She had tried very hard not to convey those emotions when she was around him, but she always had the sneaking suspicion that she failed. Tom was a well-practiced and skilled actor who had been fooling his peers and superiors alike his entire life. Hermione wasn’t. 

“I thought we were beginning to get on quite well,” said Tom, ignoring her question.

Hermione turned to him; skepticism written across her face. “Do you trust me, Tom?” she asked again.

Tom stared at her in that calculating way he always did, surveying her and looking her up and down. By the way his eyes roamed, Hermione never knew if he was thinking deeply or teasingly flirting with her. Either way, it unnerved her every time.

“No,” said Tom eventually.

Hermione sighed and looked back at the lake, off into the distance and the rolling yellow and brown hills. “I do not trust you, either.”

Tom said nothing, but the atmosphere didn’t exactly feel uncomfortable either. They had simply admitted what they already knew, and it wasn’t offensive by any means. Neither trusted easily, although deep down they knew they regarded each other very differently from their friends. But it wasn’t trust; not yet. Probably not ever for Hermione, though she sorted through the advantages of having Tom’s trust.

Hermione pulled out her wand and transfigured one of her gloves into a blanket. She cast a warming charm and water-repelling charm on the new wool blanket since the ground had not completely soaked up yesterday’s rainfall. Tom watched her curiously as she sat down, but he remained standing and watching the giant squid’s breaching tentacles.

“How about a swim?” he asked suddenly, and Hermione gaped at him.

“What?” she spluttered. “Are you mental?” 

Tom laughed brightly and turned to her, crouching down on his heels. “It’s good training.”

“For what?” laughed Hermione. “When would you ever find yourself in a freezing body of water?”

“Exactly. You never know,” Tom shrugged, and to her horror, began unbuckling the straps of his cloak.

“Tom, you can’t be serious!” gasped Hermione, standing abruptly to her feet once more.

“I’m always serious.”

“I’ve noticed… But about this!” Hermione shook her head at him like a reprimanding mother and unconsciously reached for the buckle of his cloak, redoing it with cold fingers. Tom looked down at her curiously, his smile wiped away. Hermione kept her eyes firmly on his cloak and refused to look up at him no matter how embarrassed she suddenly felt.

“No one stops me from doing what I want, Hermione,” said Tom softly, his breath puffing out in white clouds against her hairline.

“How unsurprising,” she deadpanned, doing up the last buckle. “But I don’t much fancy watching you freeze yourself to death today.”

“I wasn’t aware you cared so much for my health.”

“I don’t,” huffed Hermione, pulling away from his intoxicating presence and sitting back down on the blanket. This time, Tom joined her, and she very much wished she had transfigured a larger blanket when their arms brushed. She felt a warming charm roll over her and saw Tom’s hand moving out of the corner of her eye.

For several minutes they sat in silence, watching the lake, basking in the steady warming charms, and admiring the view of the lake and distant castle.

“Tom?” asked Hermione eventually, pulling at a thread in her cloak. Tom turned to her. “Why do you work at _Borgin and Burkes?”_

“Why do you work at _Secondhand Tomes?_ ” he countered, ignoring her question just as she expected.

“I asked you first,” she murmured childishly.

Tom smirked. “I suppose I am searching for something.”

Hermione’s brow pinched in curiosity. “Such as an experience?” She supposed she had taken the bookstore job for the same reasons.

“Of sorts,” said Tom simply, and Hermione realized she would get nothing more out of him.

“You’re a mystery,” she said.

“As are you.”

“Me? Ironically, though we neither claim to trust each other nor be friends, you probably know more about me than anyone,” said Hermione thoughtfully, clasping a hand around the emerald pendant hanging beneath her jumper.

“I wish it was under better circumstances,” said Tom, and before Hermione could think on the meaning behind his words, he continued, “And how are you feeling?”

Hermione sighed deeply as Tom comfortably reclined on his elbows. “I feel different,” she said. “I’m calmer when I’m with you, with your magic, but I don’t _feel_ like myself.”

“Then how do you feel?”

“Anxious…angry. I feel drawn towards something that I can only feel, but that I can’t see. My thoughts are darker sometimes. I dwell on…unhealthy things. I don’t see a cure and I don’t think our lessons are helping…no offense. I’m not even sure being around you is good for me at all.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Tom innocently.

Hermione raised a brow at him. “You’re part of the problem, aren’t you? This curse feeds off of dark magic, and you’re not exactly innocent.”

Tom barked a rare and contagious laugh. “Fair enough. But I hope you know that I _am_ trying to help you, Hermione. I’m aware I’m not the ideal teacher, but I think I am right to say I am your only option.”

“Yes…the situation is rather contradictory, isn’t it?” They fell into silence and Hermione sighed quietly. “Do you think there’s a cure?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Our research hasn’t exactly pointed in that direction.”

He said it with such a lack of care or emotion that Hermione felt her hope dissolve further away.

“So, then what is the point, really?” said Hermione spitefully. Why was she wasting her time with him, torturing herself in his presence, when really there was no cure, no point at all in his help?

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Hermione,” said Tom with a playful smirk. Hermione groaned and stretched out her legs, reclining on her elbows so that they were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. “Perhaps there is no cure, but don’t you want to prolong the curse? To do that, you need to learn control, and you’ve only made strides in that department with _my_ help.”

There was a trace of possessiveness in his voice, as if Tom hated the idea of her _not_ needing his help.

“I know that,” hissed Hermione through clenched teeth, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye.

“And when this curse consumes you, as we both suspect that it will, don’t you want someone around you that can help you control and navigate your new mind? Someone that can calm you down when _you_ lose control, as I’ve done before?”

Hermione scowled slightly and spat through gritted teeth, “Yes.”

“Then let’s keep practicing, shall we?” said Tom mockingly, his head inclined in her direction. Hermione refused to look at him; she was angry and felt purposefully antagonized. “Take out your wand.”

Hermione scoffed at his demand. “Take out _your_ wand!” she retorted. Tom tossed his head back and laughed and Hermione blushed at the second meaning behind her words, and hence, why he found humor in them. “Oh, don’t even _think_ about making some inappropriate innuendo right now!”

The jibe sounded so friendly and playful that she couldn’t believe she was speaking to Tom Riddle, but she felt her flush spread down her cheeks when Tom rose a mocking eyebrow at her, angering her further.

“I merely enjoy riling you up, Hermione, but how interesting to find that your mind immediately jumped to such improper and sexual locutions,” said Tom with a grin.

To hear the word _‘sexual’_ leave Tom’s lips was so shocking that it sent Hermione’s heart racing, but she concealed that by glaring in the opposite direction, hoping to hide her blush as she huffed out an exasperated sigh. He truly was one of the most antagonistic, arrogant, and incorrigible persons she had ever met!

“Oh, c’mon,” laughed Tom, and Hermione suddenly concluded, despite her overwhelming feeling of stupidity at the moment, that she enjoyed this Tom very much. In the past few weeks, he had been rather playful in general, laughing and joking more. Hermione had never thought of Tom as having personality; he was too calm and cold and emotionless for that. But perhaps she was wrong, and she just needed to experience certain moments with him to bring out that side of him.

To her surprise, and with a jolt of her stomach, she felt Tom pull away the flap of her cloak, snatching her wand out of her pocket. His fingers brushed her hip bone as he did so, the lowest he had ever touched her. She remembered _every_ time Tom had ever touched her, from the soft caress of his breath and fingers on her shoulder that very first day in the linen closet, when he trapped her against the locked door. There was, of course, every time his lips had brushed her knuckles in greeting or farewell. Then, at _Secondhand Tomes,_ when his fingers had enclosed around her throat, cornering her about her necklace and ability to magically essence bond. Or the way he held her when they danced, his hand in hers and the other low on her back, lower than even Abraxas or any of the other men she had danced with dared to put it. Then, the following night, when he had cupped her cheeks like a lover ready to plant a kiss, successfully calming her down after her first horrible outburst of magic.

Hermione realized she had stopped breathing. Tom was twirling her wand in his fingers, as if he had not noticed that he touched her, or just didn’t care. She felt, suddenly, even more foolish, and snatched her wand back from him.

“I want to try something,” said Tom, sitting up. Hermione did the same. “Have you ever cast an Unforgivable?”

She could do nothing but stare at him, aghast. “Of course, I haven’t!” she spluttered after several moments.

Tom cocked his head at her, gazing intently, and then a smile inched its way up his lips. “You’re lying.”

“What? I am not!” breathed Hermione, defensively crossing her arms.

“You are,” smirked Tom. “Which one?”

Hermione glared at him, her lips downturned in a frown and her heart racing. “Fine,” she spat. “A few months ago, before we met again, I tried the Killing Curse on a wilting plant in my garden.”

“Ah,” hummed Tom, his smirk unwavering, “a good choice.”

His words disturbed her so much that she actually shivered, and it most certainly wasn’t from the near-freezing temperatures. Like several times before, Hermione had not missed the way his lips curled and caressed around the syllables he spoke, words that pertained to the Dark Arts. He was utterly fascinated; completely obsessed. Only that could explain the loving way he talked about it, as well as how proud he seemed of her in the moment.

“And how did it feel?” asked Tom.

“Horrible!” said Hermione. “It was dark and draining, though I didn’t feel bad since I used it on a plant, which is more than I can say for you by the way you’re talking about it.”

Tom laughed unexpectedly, surprising Hermione since she had blurted out the words so suddenly, feeling as if she overstepped.

“Draining you say?” continued Tom.

“It was dark magic; a heavy curse. Of course, it was draining.”

“Try it now.”

“No,” Hermione said firmly, completely shocked by his request, though she supposed she shouldn’t be. The Unforgivables were probably just ‘another day in the life of Tom Riddle’, but not to her.

“I want to see if it’s draining to your magic, or if it will strengthen it,” said Tom.

Hermione buried her head in her hands. He had a good point; it would be an important thing to know, but she already knew the answer.

“Of course, it will strengthen my magic!” she retorted. “This piece of shit -” she tugged at her necklace and Tom’s lips twitched “- thrives off of Dark Magic! It’s been waiting idly by for me to try something as stupid as that!”

“It’s important for our research, Hermione,” said Tom firmly. “If you can control how it affects you, and therefore prolong the curse’s effects, then we’ll know you’re practicing hard enough. If it doesn’t, then we know we need to work harder on your _control._ ”

Hermione swallowed thickly. He was right; it was important to their research, and now she was downright curious. But she didn’t trust herself, and she definitely did not trust her infected magic to fight off the darkness that would surely result from her using an Unforgivable. But if she wanted to prolong her sanity, keep the curse at bay for as long as possible by learning to control her magic, she needed to know. Moreover, just the talk of using a dark curse had Hermione’s magic lurching, as if it knew what was to come. Perhaps it was the curse, more than her intact and sane mind, that led her to answer, “Ok.”

Tom nodded, looking serious now, and reached out his right hand towards the forest. A few moments later, a small branch of ripe, red winter berries soared wandlessly into his hand.

“Kill it,” he said simply, setting it on the grass by their feet.

For a minute, Hermione hesitated, mulling over the benefits and consequences of her next move. But her desire for knowledge won over in the end. She wanted to know how she would handle using dark magic herself. Tom was putting a challenge in front of her, and she was never one to turn down a challenge, especially when it involved her own magical ability.

Without another thought, Hermione moved to the end of the blanket and pointed her wand at the lively branch of berries. Her magic surged excitedly, so eager and hungry that Hermione hesitated once more, this time in alarm. She felt Tom’s fingers stroke across her shoulder, and she jumped. They moved to the strip of bare skin on the back of her neck between her hair and scarf, stroking little patterns.

“You can do this, Hermione,” he said in her ear. He had moved closer to her. Hermione took a deep breath as she felt his palm flatten along the back of her neck, his fingers threading in the hair at the nape of her neck. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, and Hermione felt his magic envelop her in warmth.

The Unforgivable tingled at the tip of Hermione’s tongue, her heart rate increasing at alarming speed. The consequences of using the spell, however, had completely vanished along with any anxiety. In its place, Hermione felt complete, unbridled power. Her magic was lurching, sending shockwaves down her arm and into her fingertips. It was reacting, already, to what was to come, as well as Tom’s own magic. It felt euphoric before she even uttered the curse. It felt _right,_ and though moments ago that would have terrified her, Hermione was now completely blind to anything that was moral.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_ she hissed with meaning. There was flash of green light from her wand tip, and the winter berries shriveled, the branch blackening.

A smile stretched across Hermione’s lips, and behind her, a smirk was firmly plastered on Tom’s.

It had been only a twig, but Hermione felt _incredible._ She felt indestructible, all-powerful, and hungry for more. She felt totally intoxicated by the curse, and her magic had never felt more _real,_ more _her;_ it had never felt stronger. She was in complete control, she realized; she could have been _ages_ ago, if only she had dabbled in physically using the Dark Arts sooner. It felt amazing. Why hadn’t she?

Hermione felt a laugh bubbling up in her chest, and she let it burst forth in a melodious, yet oddly out-of-place, sound. Her magic exploded with it, happily intwining with Tom’s, urging Hermione on, whispering for her to _try another_ or _cast it again._

“How do you feel?” came a whisper in her ear. Tom was still positioned at her side and slightly out of her peripherals, his lips poised above her ear and his fingers trailing from the back of her neck to her opposite shoulder. They burned her skin even from above her cloak, and Hermione smiled serenely, relaxing into his touch. The curse was intoxicating; her magic was intoxicating. But in the moment, in this moment, Tom was utterly consuming her. His touch burned her and inappropriately left her wanting more. The moment was suddenly sensual, and Hermione was more than aware of it. His magic was everywhere, caressing just like his fingers, but stronger and more demanding and darker than the stroke of his hand. It felt incredible, and Hermione had completely lost control of _herself._

“Marvelous,” Hermione answered him in a raspy tone.

“You’ve done well,” said Tom, and this time, his lips brushed the lobe of her ear.

Hermione unconsciously tilted her head, straining for the brush of his lips once more on her ear, her neck, _anything._ All rational thoughts were gone. There was just Hermione and her magic, and Tom and his. There was only darkness and power and temptation and sensuality.

She got what she wanted, however, when she felt the brush of lips at the thin skin of her neck just below her ear. Tom was kissing her, his sinful lips as light as a feather but still managing to set her on fire. He did not raise his lips from her skin but dragged them slowly down the side of her neck. Hermione sank into his touch, into the hand that had moved from her shoulder to the middle of her back, supporting her weight as she completely relaxed into him. All she could see before her eyes fluttered shut was dark hair, and then her eyes were closed to the world and she could only _feel._

His lips grew more demanding as they moved down the expanse of her neck, and only when her breathing hitched, did Tom stop to taste her. Hermione felt his lips firmly on a certain spot that had her stomach fluttering, sending waves of desire from her head to toes. She felt the tip of his tongue peek out to explore, and then teeth sinking into the delicate flesh. She gasped and dropped her wand; felt her other hand move to one of Tom’s outstretched legs beside her, landing in surprise on his thigh. Her nails breached his trousers when he sucked her bruising flesh into his mouth and Hermione _moaned,_ her head falling back.

She let her head loll towards him, her eyes fluttering open and the movement making him pull away from her creased neck. Hermione stared at him through hooded eyes for several moments, taking in his wind-blown hair, dark blue eyes that were nearly black with what she thought could be heady desire. He licked his lips slowly, purposefully, and Hermione felt a breathy moan escape her parted lips once more. She could feel his magic still, rolling off him in waves, and Hermione was so overwhelmingly attracted to him in the moment for his magical ability, his power and intelligence, and his astonishingly good looks.

She felt, rather than consciously directed, herself leaning forward, eyes flicking between his dark eyes and tempting lips. He was so beautiful, and they were both so powerful together in this moment. She wanted him, desired him with everything in her being, more than she had desired anything or anyone in her entire life.

Tom looked completely consumed by the situation as well, his eyes lust-hazed and staring at her up and down calculatedly, just as he always did. He raised his free hand to her cheek, the fingers of his opposite hand flexing between her shoulder blades. Hermione leaned into his hand, felt the cold band of his gold ring on her jaw, his thumb stroke across her bottom lip as she inched closer. His magic lurched dramatically, powerfully, and another breathy moan slipped through Hermione’s lips at the feel of it.

Finally, at last, after months of pent-up attraction and countless confusing emotions, Tom and Hermione’s lips brushed. The kiss, if it could even be called that, was not rushed. They had all the time in the world, Hermione realized, her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed closer to him, putting more weight on the hand that still sat atop his strong thigh. It was only a moment, a brush of lips, uncertain and stalling and breathing each other in.

Perhaps it was because she had shut him out, closed her eyes and could see him no longer. Maybe it was the sudden, pleasurable pain that throbbed at the side of her neck, or the high from casting the Unforgivable had simply worn off. Either way, Hermione came back to herself with shocking realization. She jumped back, tearing her hand and lips away from him and retreating to the other side of the blanket. She raised fingers to her lips, a hand to her neck where she had _let_ him mark her.

_What was wrong with her? What had just happened?_

Her magic was still present and intwined with Tom’s, but Hermione did not try to pull it back. She was frozen in disbelief, staring at him in horror.

Tom, on the other hand, looked bored and unamused, staring back at her emotionlessly, his hands now at his sides.

“We…” Hermione choked out, her voice hoarse and still sounding as aroused as she had felt. “We shouldn’t have… That was a mistake.”

Tom looked unoffended and Hermione felt her flush spread to her forehead, down her neck.

“Was it?” said Tom after several moments, his voice cool, calm, and collected.

Hermione gaped at him, her hands dropping to the blanket, searching for her wand. She saw Tom look at the mark he had left on her neck and she quickly rewrapped her scarf around her. When had he even loosened it?

“It was,” she said firmly, standing to her feet. Tom remained sitting, carelessly reclined on his palms, looking unflinchingly regal.

“It was not,” said Tom, “but I will wait patiently until you believe that yourself.”

Hermione scoffed and turned on her heel. He was right and wrong all at once. Why had those few sensual minutes with Tom, which hadn’t even resulted in a complete kiss, excited her more than any kiss she had ever shared with a man?

Hermione fled back to the castle, thinking of Abraxas and her corrupted magic, of the corrupted man she had just left behind, and of how she was irrevocably _drawn_ to him.

~

Hermione locked herself in her room until dinner. Tom came back about an hour after she returned, but he did not bother her. She sat in a steaming bath for nearly an hour herself, lost in thought and washing the cold out of her bones.

She was in shock by what had happened down by the lake. She was scared more than anything; scared from the kiss, yes, but mostly because of _why_ it had happened. Casting the Killing Curse had certainly been educational upon reflection. It had twisted her magic into something hungry and docile, leaving Hermione feeling powerful and satiated all at once. She still felt that way now, hours later, though she also felt guilty and terrified at the feeling. What was worse, was that she wanted to feel it _again._ Tom was right: using the curse had shown her how in control she really was over her necklace, and the truth was that she wasn’t at all.

Hermione had never felt worse than she did now, her thoughts continually straying to the darker side. Ideas of how and _when_ she could practice the Dark Arts again plagued her. Continuously, she asked herself what it would feel like if she cast the Killing Curse on a _person._ It was a horrible thought, she knew, but she couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if a mere branch of berries had made her feel so…incredible. She had never felt _better._ She felt empowered and invincible. Tom had made her feel that way, too. His magic made her feel strangely safe, but also as if she could do anything in the world. Their magic, together, had been remarkable. Both of them consumed momentarily by the Dark Arts and each other, their magic reacting in unison, their _bodies_ reacting to each other.

She tried very hard to stop thinking of their interaction. She had been aroused, more aroused than she had felt when Abraxas had devoured her lips by the lake. Tom had barely done anything to her, and yet he affected her so. But that was Tom; he had always been able to affect her with even the slightest of actions, hadn’t he?

An hour before dinner, Hermione stood from the bath and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Water dripped from her figure, but her eyes were drawn to the small bruise on her neck, just above the thick, silver herringbone chain that led to a diamond-encrusted placated emerald, the root of all of her current issues. Angry from its earlier attempts to seduce her into the Dark Arts _and_ into the arms of Tom Riddle, Hermione tried to work away at the clasp, but as usual, the necklace did not come off. What would it take? What would she become before the curse ran its course in her system? A murderer? A dark witch that was completely embedded in the Dark Arts? Both?

Hermione’s fingers trailed from the necklace to the dark bruise on the side of her neck. It was tender when she touched it, but her stomach flipped pleasantly at the sensation. She had allowed Tom to bite and suck this mark into her skin, and she had enjoyed it. Hermione stared at herself in the mirror and hated her reflection for it, for allowing such a thing even under the heavy influence of the curse. Yet, for some strange reason, she did not want to heal it. She couldn’t explain why her hand hesitated to pick up her wand, but it just did. Tom had marked her, and she should hate him for it, but all that it made her feel was pleasure and pride. She would not heal it yet, she decided. Just a little while longer, and then she would cover it.

So, Hermione proceeded to dry off and get ready for dinner. She did her hair and put on light makeup, dressed, and only when she was completely ready, did she pick up her wand and cast an _Episkey_ on the bruise. It faded to yellow, but it would have to do since Hermione did not have bruise cream with her.

Hermione slipped out of her bedroom quietly, purposefully early, and was thankful to see Tom’s door still shut. She left their chambers and ascended to dinner without him. The last thing she wanted to endure was an uncomfortable walk up to the Great Hall. The awkward silence between them could wait until dinner, when Hermione could involve the other professors in the conversation. Then, she would be able to Disapparate home and away from Tom. She could cancel their lesson Sunday so as to avoid him further; maybe even Wednesday. Possibly indefinitely? Hermione was so embarrassed that she saw now problem with the latter option.

The Great Hall was filling with students when Hermione entered behind a group of young Ravenclaws. She sat at her seat at the end of the high table, greeting some of the professors along the way.

“Where is Tom?” asked Slughorn immediately.

Hermione leaned over Tom’s empty chair to say, “He’ll be along in a moment.”

“Good,” said Slughorn joyfully. “There is something I wish to ask you both.”

Just as she began filling her plate with a seasoned chicken breast, she saw Tom enter the Great Hall out of the corner of her eye. He owned the room as he sauntered down the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor table, and Hermione watched him in awe. He met her eyes halfway down the row and glared at her, most likely angry that she came to dinner without him.

In return, he ignored her for the majority of dinner, although Hermione was grateful for it. The first twenty minutes were spent discussing Animagi with Dumbledore, so she was quite content. That is, until dessert arrived.

“Horace, shall we ask them now?” asked Professor Beery a few seats down. Hermione looked up from her pudding to see the majority of the professors looking at her and Tom hopefully. She glanced up at Tom, who seemed just as confused, but did not look at her.

“Ah, yes!” cried Slughorn, turning his pudgy belly in his seat to face them. Tom leaned back in his seat and Hermione looked across him at the potions master expectantly. “We have a massive favor to ask you both,” said Slughorn. “You see, the newly retired Headmaster of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is holding a conference in London tomorrow. Only a handful of us had tickets, but just this morning received notice that there were still some available. Professors Dumbledore, Beery and I would like to go now that we have the opportunity. However, we’ve run into a snag since the three of us were to be chaperons in Hogsmeade tomorrow. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, you see…” Slughorn trailed away and Hermione realized exactly what he was trying to ask.

No. _No,_ she thought. Not another night with Tom.

“Hermione and I would be delighted to cover for you, professors,” said Tom before Slughorn could properly ask.

Hermione made a noise of amazement and opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly there was a firm hand on her knee, squeezing tightly, and she froze in shock. Slughorn seemed to take her silence as agreement.

“Oh, splendid!” cried Professor Slughorn and Beery and Dumbledore exchanged excited grins. “We can’t thank you two enough.”

“It’s nothing, really,” said Tom smoothly, his grip lightening somewhat. He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye and Hermione swallowed thickly.

“We’d be delighted to give you all the day off, truly,” said Hermione kindly, and though she meant it, she hated that she would be stuck with Tom even longer.

“It’s settled then,” said Slughorn, clapping his hands together.

“The caretaker will be here, of course, and the Headmaster,” said Dumbledore. “We trust your old Head duties will come in handy tomorrow.” He smiled tightly, looking at Tom, and then thanked them both.

Hermione finally came to her senses and pushed Tom’s hand off her knee, though deep down she wanted to keep it there, just like the bruise he had sucked onto her neck. She glanced up at him, to his lips, which were pursed in annoyance.

Dinner ended half an hour later, when the majority of the students had already turned in for the night, buzzing excitedly about staying up late in the common room in preparation for the weekend. Tom and Hermione bid the majority of the teachers’ goodbye, and Slughorn escorted them back downstairs with a couple instructions for the following day.

“Please feel free to return home from Hogsmeade as soon as you direct the last of the students back to the castle,” said Slughorn much to their pleasure. This way, they wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the castle only to return to Hogsmeade and the Apparition point briefly after.

“You can count on us, sir,” promised Tom silkily as Slughorn dropped them off by their room.

“And I do hope you both can stop by my Christmas party on the eighteenth?” asked Slughorn hopefully, rubbing his meaty hands together.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir,” said Tom, speaking for Hermione _again,_ although this time she had already agreed to the invitation.

“I’m so delighted!” cried Slughorn, and reached a hand towards Tom, who shook it firmly. “Thank you both for joining me in the classroom this week, and for saving my skin tomorrow.”

“It’s no trouble, sir,” said Hermione kindly. “It really was an honor to be invited here. I know Tom and I are _both_ grateful,” she said smoothly, glancing up to gauge Tom’s reaction to being spoken for this time around. His lips twitched in a suppressed smirk.

Shortly after, Slughorn bid them goodbye and waddled back down the corridor, towards his own chambers. Tom opened the door to the guest quarters and Hermione stomped in, prepared to fight him for the role he played in their newly prolonged stay. Feeling dramatic, and perhaps deep-down simply longing to touch him again, Hermione pushed him into the door the moment he closed it. He looked surprised for a moment as his back collided with the wood, but then he simply leaned against it in a relaxed fashion and smirked arrogantly, mocking her.

Hermione crossed her arms and glared up at him. “Since when do you make plans for me?” she hissed.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom lightly, mirroring her by crossing his arms.

“Perhaps I didn’t want to stay another night here - with you!”

“And why ever not?” asked Tom innocently. “I thought we were getting along quite well -”

Hermione spluttered indignantly, scoffing at the meaningful innuendo behind his words.

“Or I at least thought you were growing fonder of me,” continued Tom, his smirk growing as he raised an eyebrow.

“How dare you,” spat Hermione through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what happened down at the lake earlier, but I certainly didn’t act out of fondness! However, that is besides the point. I’m angry that you spoke for me when you had no right to!” she said, waving a finger in his face.

“Would you have said no?” asked Tom innocently.

Hermione scoffed. “No…but that is not the point! The point is that I can speak for myself,” she scowled, poking him in the chest for good measure, “and that you’re a prat for making assumptions for me.”

Satisfied with her spiel, Hermione abruptly turned on her heel and made to storm off to her bedroom. She was immediately pulled back by Tom’s hand on her wrist, and within seconds she found her own back bouncing harshly off the door, Tom standing tall in front of her.

“That’s more like it, is it not?” he said, not quite as calm as he had been moments ago. “Quite like old times.”

Hermione immediately knew what he spoke of: the linen closet, _Secondhand Tomes…_ She felt a shiver run down her spine as she glared up into Tom’s harsh blue eyes. Yes, quite like old times, indeed.

“That’s not funny,” she hissed, shoving at his chest boldly. “Believe it or not, you were an even bigger prat then than you are now.”

Tom’s lip curled as he grabbed her wrist again, taking her hand off his chest and holding it firmly between them. “I apologize, _Hermione,_ if I offended you tonight,” he drawled. “That was not my intention. Perhaps I jumped at the opportunity to spend more time with you and reconcile for your behavior, of which has been strangely hostile towards me as of late.”

“You may be brilliant, Tom, but I can still tell when you’re lying. You do not seem sorry, despite your apology, which comes as no surprise to me since you are the least sincere of persons that I know.”

“There’s that hostility again,” tsked Tom, and Hermione winced as his grip on her wrist became slightly tighter. He promptly released her, and she shrugged against the door. “Care to explain your recent disdain towards me?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not really. I _would_ care to go to bed, so if you may kindly step out of my way.”

Tom did the opposite and stepped closer, leaning his head down slightly. “I’m not used to being told no, Hermione.”

“Shocking,” Hermione deadpanned, raising a challenging brow.

“You refused me important information once before and I nearly had to force the answers from you.”

Hermione felt red hot anger course through her, and she crossed her arms. “Threatening me with Legilimency again, Tom? Really?”

“Then choose wisely, Hermione. Either tell me why you have been acting oddly in these last two weeks, or I will find the answers myself.”

“Looks like you’re on your own then,” said Hermione, shoving forcefully past him.

“Is this about what happened earlier?” called Tom.

“ _Nothing_ happened earlier!” Hermione hissed, whirling around.

Tom was still standing by the door, his hands folded behind his back. “Something happened,” he said.

“Yes, fine! Something _did_ happen. We both learned that I _clearly_ have no control over my magic. Using that curse completely changed me, and I hated who I was in that moment!”

Tom looked unperturbed for several moments, but then he began stalking towards her. Hermione stood her ground. 

“I did not hate you. I had never seen you look more beautiful. You were oozing power; you were incredible. You were _better._ ” Tom stopped in front of her, leaving Hermione breathless.

“I don’t _want_ to be better,” she whispered, very near trembling, “not if that means I lose myself.”

Tom shook his head slowly as he assessed her. “You were never _more_ yourself than you were earlier.” He looked, momentarily, utterly in awe of her, as if he was reliving the memory. 

“And that is why I cannot trust you,” said Hermione in a tone of finality. “You do not want what is best for me. You sound as if the curse is a good thing, as if I am better off without it.”

“I do not think that,” said Tom firmly. “I do not wish to see you lose your mind to this curse, Hermione, for it is far too great a mind to be damaged. However, I have seen your magical ability grow since our lessons began, and for that, I believe you are benefitting from your situation.”

Hermione simply stared at him.

“You have grown so strong that even your magic affected mine earlier,” he continued. “For those few minutes, I was completely enamored by you. Your magic affects mine as much as mine affects you, you must know that now. I had no intentions of kissing you when I asked you to perform the Killing Curse… For that, I have been waiting for the right moment.”

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. She did not know what to say. Tom’s lips were parted, and he looked as if he wanted to say more, perhaps even kiss her, but he turned on his heel and strode away. Hermione stared at his back, dumbstruck, until he disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door.

His magic was affected by hers as well… She had always thought he was too in control, too powerful for that. And he deliberately expressed his intentions to kiss her… But the moment had passed. _She_ had initiated the near-kiss between them. _Tom_ had been so swept up in the moment that he had marked her neck.

Hermione slowly retreated into her own bedroom and shut the door. She stood with her back against it for a long while, staring into the fireplace across the room, breathing heavily.

Yes, the moment had passed…and it _wouldn’t_ happen again.

oOo

“No signature, no Hogsmeade,” growled Apollyon Pringle, the Hogwarts caretaker. Hermione watched on with pity as the third-year student frowned and looked up at Pringle through her shaggy blonde bangs.

“But they did sign it!” she insisted. “I just forgot it at home!”

“If I can’t see it,” said Pringle, “it doesn’t count.”

The poor child looked very near tears and Hermione stepped up to them. “Please, Mr. Pringle, I’ll keep a close eye on her. We are all forgetful sometimes, aren’t we?” she chuckled.

Pringle did not look amused. “I don’t give a damn who forgot what. No signature, no Hogsmeade!”

Hermione flinched and gaped at the old grouch. Now the third year really _was_ crying. “Excuse me,” said Hermione in an offended tone, “but it is I who will be chaperoning today, _not_ -”

“What’s going on here?”

Hermione turned to see Tom standing behind her, glaring fiercely at Pringle. He glanced briefly down at her, causing Hermione to blush against her will. She had been avoiding eye contact with him all morning after their conversation last night, when Tom admitted his intentions to kiss her, explained how much she affected _him._

“I forgot my permission form at home and Mr. Pringle won’t let me go!” said the young girl.

Tom glanced over to her. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Sarah Selwyn.”

Hermione started, wondering how she was related to Victoria Selwyn, who only had a younger and older brother. Perhaps a cousin, then.

“Why did you not go on the first Hogsmeade trip in October?”

“It was canceled,” said Sarah, “so I only needed my permission form now. And then I couldn’t find it!”

“I know the Selwyn’s well,” said Tom importantly, looking at Pringle. “I will keep a close eye on her in Hogsmeade.” He put a firm hand on Sarah’s shoulder and gave her a gentle push towards the door. “In the meantime, Miss Selwyn, I suggest you owl your parents and ask them to look for your permission form.”

Her tears immediately dried and she beamed at Tom as she moved to join her friends.

“Those aren’t the rules,” spat Pringle, his wrinkled face twisted into an ugly sneer.

Tom stepped up to Hermione’s side and glared down at the older man. “They’re _my_ rules, because Miss Granger and _I_ are chaperoning, as Professor Slughorn surely told you. If you have complaints, you may take them up with him.”

Hermione watched in amazement as Tom’s harsh glare drove Pringle away. His hunched back stomped out of sight, growling angrily all the way. She suppressed an amused smile as she buckled up her cloak and tucked the ends of her scarf inside.

“Here,” said Tom suddenly, his eyes on the excited group of students retreating down the path as he held out a hand. It was the glove that she had transfigured into a blanket yesterday, the blanket that she had left him on down by the lake.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she slipped it on and pulled its twin out of her pocket. Chivalrous as ever, or at least when he _wanted_ to be, Tom pulled back his hand and bent his arm at the elbow. Hermione hesitated for only a moment before she tucked her arm through his.

Tom led them through the Entrance Hall doors, which closed magically behind them, and they began the chilly walk to Hogsmeade. For a long time, they were quiet, trailing behind the large group of tittering students. Several of the third years, excited for their very first day trip, had took off in a run and were now out of sight. Tom did not appear so happy about this, but he made no move to stop them.

It was nostalgic for Hermione, to be returning with the students to Hogsmeade. She remembered clearly every trip she took, every pillaging of _Honeyduke’s_ and _Zonko’s Joke Shop_ with her friends.

“I used to love coming here,” said Hermione, voicing her thoughts halfway through the journey. She looked up at Tom to see if he would reply, stared at him a moment, waiting awkwardly in the silence. His dark hair blew softly in the breeze and his cheeks were pink from the cold air. It made his face appear even paler than usual, which accentuated the redness in his lips and the dark lashes framing his blue eyes. She watched his jaw clench and unclench, marveled for another few moments at how beautiful he looked just now, and then continued, “Didn’t you?”

Tom looked down at her then, his eyes so piercing that Hermione felt suddenly self-conscious and regretted speaking at all.

“I did,” he said simply, and then looked forward again.

Hermione unconsciously gripped his arm tighter as she swallowed thickly. “It was a huge step for me, you know. It was the first time I went anywhere without my father’s permission.”

Tom rose a questioning brow and Hermione giggled softly, breaking through the tension between them.

“Yes,” she continued, “I didn’t get his permission. He wanted me to stay on the Hogwarts grounds after what happened to my mother.”

“I am unsurprised. How did you pull it off?” asked Tom, looking less intimidating and more amused now.

Hermione smiled at the memory. “I forged his signature.”

Tom chuckled as he led her across the icy bridge. “How very Slytherin of you. I am impressed.”

“You would be,” joked Hermione, attempting to lighten the mood further. “I didn’t get away with it. Dumbledore noticed. He is one of the few that knows the entire truth about what happened to my mother. He knew my father would never allow me to leave the grounds, but Dumbledore knew Hogsmeade was safe, so he let it slide. Slughorn has kept it a secret as well all these years.”

“And how did your father take it when you told him you were staying at Hogwarts another day? I believe I saw a Patronus outside of my window last night.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione. She had sent her father a Patronus last night to inform him of her new Saturday plans. “I didn’t give him much of a choice. I simply told him I was helping Slughorn out by filling in as a chaperone. He will be comforted that you are with me, I’m sure, but I didn’t exactly tell him the other professors would be gone, either.”

“I’m sure that was wise.” Tom combed his fingers through his hair and looked back down at her seriously. “I am glad they kept your secret - Dumbledore and Slughorn. You deserved to escape your father’s clutches a few days every term.”

Hermione sighed sadly. “Yes, well…it was worth it then.”

“Is it not worth it now?” asked Tom.

Up ahead, the small third years were mere black dots as they scrambled into High Street of Hogsmeade. Hermione ran a watchful eye over them before they disappeared into a shop. The majority of the students were still many meters ahead, taking their time to reach Hogsmeade and enjoying the crisp fresh air.

“What do you mean?”

“You defied your father at school to get a taste of freedom on your own,” continued Tom. “You say it was worth it then, but what about now? You are twenty and still abide by your father’s rules.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes defensively. “It’s complicated, Tom, just as I have told you before. You wouldn’t understand.”

Tom pulled them to a sudden stop, his free hand falling on hers, still tucked in the crook of his arm. “I understand more than anyone. You should know that,” he said, surprising her. “I was raised in a Muggle orphanage. I couldn’t be myself; I had to follow strict rules. I could not go anywhere; I was subjected to one room my entire childhood. I know exactly how it feels.”

Hermione’s eyes were blown wide by the sincerity in his voice. Tom surprised her sometimes. Mostly, he was serious and collected and blunt. Other times, he was antagonizing and teasing and on even rare occasion, playful. But there was a handful of times, like this one, where he showed emotion and sincerity.

“What did it feel like?” she asked cautiously. “What did it feel like when you came to Hogwarts?”

Tom dropped his hand back to his side. Hermione’s hand tugged on inside of his elbow as he started back down the path.

“It felt as if I was in chains before, and then I was set free.”

Hermione felt quite emotional at his response, because she knew exactly how that felt, and yet Tom’s situation had been much worse than hers. She glanced up at him only to see that he looked unphased and emotionless once more. _How did he do that?_ How much of his past had turned him into the man he was today? A man that did not shy away from the Dark Arts, that was manipulative and unafraid to harm another human being.

“And when you first traveled? What was it like?”

“The same, but better,” said Tom simply. “I hope that you’ll experience that one day.”

“Me too,” whispered Hermione, glancing back towards Hogwarts, which was growing smaller with every step they took.

They fell into silence for several minutes before Tom said, “Do you remember when we spoke of traveling to the Malfoy’s chateau on New Year’s?” Hermione looked at him and nodded. “I still intend to hold onto my promise and speak with your father about allowing you to go.”

“Abraxas said he would as well,” Hermione mused. “Father’s two favorite wizards…perhaps I have a chance this time.”

“You won’t have a chance until you speak with your father yourself,” said Tom rather sternly. “Everything you have told me about your desire to travel needs to be boldly voiced to your father.”

Hermione knew he was right. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s not. Gryffindors are not supposed to be cowards.”

Hermione glared at him softly, feeling as if she was being reprimanded by a professor. “You don’t know how many times I have spoken with him, Tom. I receive the same answer every time, and we argue and say things we both regret later, and then we do not speak for days.”

Tom did not seem to take pity on her as he stated, “It’s a cycle you alone can break.”

Hermione thought on this as they continued towards Hogsmeade. Countless times, she had stood up to her father. She had, truly. She had pled her case and stood her ground and received a ‘no’ in return. The only way Hermione knew she would be free to travel and live anywhere she pleased, was if she freed herself of her father. That simply wasn’t an option. She was all he had. Hector Granger had turned into somewhat of a recluse over the years, but Hermione had refused to go down with him. She had her friends, and she visited Wizarding London as much as possible just to be able to _do_ something on her own. But it wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough. She wanted, more than anything, to go to France with Abraxas and her friends in December, even _if_ Tom was going himself. She didn’t care. Seeing France felt like a distant dream, and yet it was so close if she could just _take it._

Soon, the distant High Street looked crowded with arriving students and bustling workers on their lunch breaks. Hermione felt quite ready for some warm soup and butterbeer in _The Three Broomsticks_ herself.

“Six hours of this… Are you ready?” said Hermione.

“It should be fun,” said Tom seriously, but he had a smirk on his face. He was being sarcastic again, and the rare display of humor made Hermione giggle.

Chaperoning wasn’t especially hard work, Slughorn had said. Their duties were merely to pop in the shops and loll about in High Street to make sure the students behaved around the locals. Slughorn had said the professors usually took a window seat in _The Three Broomsticks_ or the _Hog’s Head_ for a long lunch break, allowing them to keep a watchful eye on the shopping children.

For over an hour, Tom and Hermione worked their way up High Street. They stayed the longest in a bustling _Zonko’s Joke Shop,_ where the owner looked frazzled with the increase in customers and volume. Tom and Hermione had spent a long while quieting them down. In _Honeydukes,_ they had broken up a small argument between two fourth year boys over the last available package of Cockroach Clusters.

_“I am not sure why anyone would want_ _those anyway,”_ Tom had said, and Hermione laughed in agreement.

_Gladrags Wizardwear_ had been full of a gossiping group of girls that claimed to be shopping for Slughorn’s Christmas Party. Tom had wanted to get out _there_ very quickly, though the girls had seemed to want the opposite. Hermione wondered what she would wear to Slughorn’s party next month as Tom led them into a cauldron shop. Perhaps one of her Slytherin green dresses to honor the host’s House as well as Christmas. She briefly thought Tom might approve of that color selection, but she firmly reminded herself that _he_ would not be her date, nor did she _care_ what he thought. They hadn’t even discussed attending together in the first place. The idea was too preposterous to even cross Hermione’s mind. Perhaps Abraxas would be able to join her. The day after Slughorn’s Christmas Party was Cedrella Black’s wedding to Septimus Weasley. Abraxas could join her there as well; they could make a weekend of it. The idea brightened Hermione’s spirits slightly as she roamed the shelves of _Ceridwen’s Cauldrons._

She ended up buying a new ‘Cauldron Repair Kit’ for her father. His cauldron replenishing products were running low and were outdated compared to the new cleansing products and protective oils that Hermione purchased.

“How is the dragon pox cure coming along?” Hermione asked Tom as they stepped back onto High Street. With her wand, she quickly reduced the size of her package and put it in the cloak pocket with her shrunken luggage.

“We get closer and closer every week,” said Tom. “Ever since your insight about diluting the Antimony into liquid, we have made strides with properly combining it with the unicorn blood. Of course, the ingredient list has therefore doubled to support the new state that we’ve reached with the potion.”

“Oh, yes,” hummed Hermione. “My father did say he had to put in a rather large order of Billywig Sting Slime and Horklump juice.”

“Yes, but it seems to be working. Perhaps another six months and we will have the correct brew.”

“Six months?” Hermione gasped, and at Tom’s serious and brooding look, laughed. “This is why I cannot follow in my father’s footsteps. The art of potions is much too complex.”

“I agree,” said Tom with a small smile as he peeked in the window of _Ollivander’s_ Hogsmeade branch. There didn’t seem to be any students inside.

“So, you could not see yourself trading sales for potion-making?” asked Hermione.

“No,” said Tom. “I am grateful for the opportunity of an apprenticeship with your father, and I enjoy it immensely once a week.”

Hermione chuckled. “Once a week, but not every day?”

“Precisely.”

Hermione couldn’t blame him for that; she had no idea _how_ her father did it every day. Tom was quiet and independent, but no so much as to hole himself up in a lab twelve hours every day for the rest of his life. He was much too ambitious and worldly for that, though he seemed content with a simple sales position at _Borgin and Burkes._ He truly was a puzzle.

“Shall we to lunch?” asked Tom as they passed by _Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop._ There were several students inside and the smell of delicious French patisserie wafted from the shop as a sixth year Slytherin couple slipped inside. The local tea shop had always been the destination for dates. Hermione had been on one once, and it had been a nightmare. There was one boy that had often charmed Hermione and stole kisses from her in her sixth year. She had been giddy when he asked her to Hogsmeade, but the boy had not even wanted to visit the bookshop with her. He had, instead, whisked her away for a typical date at _Madam Puddifoot’s,_ and then had tried to snog her in the alleyway afterwards. Hermione cringed at the memory.

“The Three Broomsticks?” clarified Hermione, and she took Tom’s proffered arm as he led them in the direction of the cozy pub. Students were scattered about the dining room when they arrived, and Tom led Hermione over to a corner, where they could observe the Hogwarts guests as well as keep a close watch on High Street from the window next to their table.

Hermione tried to keep her professional chaperone persona intact as she watched Tom unbuckle his cloak and take a seat across from her, reading from his menu, but she became suddenly very aware that she was eating a meal with Tom. Alone. There was no Hector to dine with them this time, nor Alfyn Lestrange. They were not in the comfort of the Granger’s home where Hermione could let the men control the conversation when she did not feel like talking. It was not simply a cup of tea between them at his flat on Wednesdays. The strange reality of their situation hit Hermione again for the third time in three days. She was at Hogwarts, with _Tom Riddle,_ and now they were sitting at a two-person table in _The Three Broomsticks,_ planning to order food together. It wouldn’t have been strange with anyone else, Hermione supposed, but it was Tom.

They both eagerly ordered butterbeer from the middle-aged waitress, who seemed to remember them both from their Hogwarts days, as well as the stew that Hermione had smelled the moment they walked through the door. Tom had also ordered bread rolls, which Hermione decided was a very good idea when her stomach growled in response to his request.

She couldn’t bear the silence while they waited for their drinks, though Tom looked unperturbed by it as usual, so she asked him a question that had been nagging at her mind ever since they left Hogwarts earlier that morning,

“Tom?”

“Hmm?” he turned to her impassively.

“Do you remember, earlier, when you said…well you said that at the Muggle orphanage you were not allowed to go anywhere or do anything, that you were subjected to one room your entire life. Is that true?”

She had hoped she was not overstepping any boundaries, and she gulped when Tom visibly clenched his jaw and glared out the window, but then his expression cleared, and he looked at her blankly.

“There were field trips, somewhat like this one, but not as fun and with _many_ more rules.”

“Where did you go?” asked Hermione.

“Once, they lined us up by the front doors and told us that we had had a donation from a family that had recently made an adoption at the orphanage. They used some of the money and took us all to get ice cream. Another time, we visited a museum in the city.”

Hermione felt her heart crumbling for him, as well as for the other children that suffered the same childhood. But he said it with such lack of feeling, that anyone _but_ Hermione would have thought he was unaffected by his past. To her, the extra hardness in his eyes and blank shadow over his handsome features showed that he _did_ care, and that his past had very much affected him, and probably still did. There was a reason for Tom’s secret cruelty and interest in the Dark Arts, and the more Hermione discovered about him, the more she wondered how much of his past was to blame.

“What was London like?” she asked timidly after the waitress returned with their warm mugs of butterbeer.

Tom leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful, and briefly brushed her leg under the table with his. Hermione glanced down to see he had stretched out his legs. He looked relaxed, which contradicted the serious gleam in his eye.

“London was nice once. The ice cream shop, the museum…it was an inventive and diverse city full of culture and grandiose architecture,” said Tom before taking a long drink from his mug. Hermione watched his movements over the rim of her own drink, as he licked the foam from his lips and swallowed. “But then the war came. I was at Hogwarts for most of it, but I still had to return in the summer. The city was dim and depressing. The Muggles on the street moved slower and looked paler and the bright shop windows that I used to see from my bedroom were boarded up. When I returned from my third year, just after the Blitz, the orphanage was one of the few buildings completely intact on the block.”

Hermione watched him closely as he spat out every sentence bitterly, as if it tasted sour in his mouth.

“What is…the Blitz?” she asked cautiously.

Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s what the Muggles call the eight months London was bombed.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione. “I remember when Headmaster Dippet announced it at breakfast one morning.” They were silent for a moment and then she continued, “I’m very glad you were safe at Hogwarts.”

Tom just inclined his head and returned to his butterbeer. “Muggles are not all they are made out to be,” said Tom quietly. “What little intelligence they have, they use for cruelty. War plagues their nations, and they solve it with more fighting, endless fighting.”

“What do you expect them to do then? War is meant to be won, which is a result of fighting.”

“Yes,” hissed Tom, leaning forward on his elbows. “Swift fighting, a swift end to a war before it is grueling. There is always one side that is more powerful, the side that deserves to win. If they cannot control the weaker side, then they are not worthy to win.”

Hermione’s brow narrowed prudently at his claims. “But what if the more powerful side is full of unworthy souls? What if they are evil and have immoral policies?”

Tom shrugged. “Power always wins. There is no good or evil.”

Hermione set her mug down hard on the table. “I agree that power always wins. History has taught us that. Grindelwald and Dumbledore taught us that. But I cannot believe you do not believe in good or evil.”

Tom licked his lips and set down his own drink, shoved a hand through his wavy hair. “There is a fine line between them. I have always thought so.”

Hermione shook her head and gave him a calculating once-over, very much like the ones he usually gave her. “The difference between them is _quite_ obvious to me, and always has been,” she said firmly, her caramel eyes hardening into a glare. The man in front of her was they very example of the difference between good and evil.

Tom smirk slightly, sat back in his chair, and raised a brow. “And _whatever_ would make you say that?” he asked smoothly, curiously, but also knowingly.

Hermione felt very much like she had walked into a trap. She had said it with such conviction and vehemence and had clearly directed it at him without thought. Only yesterday, Tom had claimed she acted strange around him as of late, hostile. Now, she had given him true reason to believe so.

“I say it because it is true,” she said simply, trying at a smile.

Tom did not look amused as his smirk tightened and refused to meet his eyes. “Because it is true? Or because you are once again accusing me of something?”

Hermione’s fingers twitched in her lap and her heart raced. “Do not put words in my mouth, Tom. I said no such thing.”

Tom hummed softly and stared at her for several long, tense moments. Hermione did not waver in returning his gaze. Then he smiled, one that slightly dimpled his cheeks and reached his eyes.

“I’m sure you would like London,” he said simply, all suspicion and edge gone from his features.

“Perhaps,” said Hermione, pretending, just like him, that nothing had happened. “I think I would prefer Paris or Geneva or Athens. Somewhere away from Britain.”

“I have not been to Geneva, but Paris and Athens are spectacular. I remember you saying you enjoyed Greek mythology. You would enjoy Athens.”

“I know I would,” whispered Hermione, her hands folding in her lap.

“Perhaps I will take you there one day,” said Tom quietly, and when Hermione looked up, he was still staring at her.

She felt her lips part in shock, making a wet little smacking nose, felt her stomach flip and her ears ring, and she had no clue what to say to him. Where in Merlin’s name had _that_ come from? Why would he say such a thing after the tense moment they had _just_ shared? Hermione thought back to last night in their shared living room, when Tom had claimed that he _wanted_ to kiss her one day, that he had always _planned_ to. The idea made her stomach flutter again and Hermione gripped the sides of her chair, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

Tom’s timing was perfect. He smiled silkily but didn’t look like he expected a response as their waitress returned with two bowls of delicious stew and a basket of warm bread rolls. Hermione simply used the stew as an excuse to not speak. For several minutes, she did not raise her head, staring only at the beef and carrots and her spoon as she raised it to her lips. Then, suddenly, Tom dissolved into laughter and Hermione glanced up, startled. He was laughing at her expense, clearly, staring at her as his teeth flashed in a grin before he threw his head back in a chortle.

“What?” Hermione asked, utterly bewildered and trying not to smile herself. Tom’s laugh, when he _did_ truly laugh, was contagious, and it took everything in her not to laugh or blush or stare at him in awe because he was so _beautiful_ like this.

“You’re so easy sometimes, Hermione,” chuckled Tom breathily, coming back to himself. Hermione quickly deduced that he had been joking with her. He didn’t _really_ mean to take her anywhere. Not to Athens or Paris or Muggle London.

“Don’t joke about things like that,” she hissed, scowling at him. But it only made him laugh harder, and Hermione _really_ tried not to look at him and smile but she couldn’t help it. “Tell me about your travels?”

And he did. She had never heard Tom talk so much, but she was captivated by him for the next two hours. For the longest time, as they sat in the corner of _The Three Broomsticks,_ ordering another two rounds of butterbeer, Tom spoke of his travels. She remembered, during the first dinner party at her house, that Tom had mentioned traveling to Germany and Portugal, Ireland and Czechoslovakia. He told her stories from each: the wizards he met, the culture of both the magical and the Muggle, for he had needed to venture into the Muggle world a few times. He spoke of the picturesque riverside city of Prague, of the red tiled roofs of Lisbon and the sweeping hills of the Douro Valley. He made her extremely jealous when he spoke of Rome, which he had never mentioned traveling to before. The Italian culture was rich as ever in the wizarding world, he had told her, and it had been his most fascinating trip thus far. Most of the trips he had taken had apparently been with Abraxas since they graduated over two years ago. Hermione wondered just how close the two men really were, although they did not _seem_ it on the outside.

From his talk of Italy, their conversation dissolved into ancient Roman history. They debated and discussed the transition of government in the ancient world, from monarchy to republic.

“And what of the empire?” asked Tom when their waitress set down their note.

“I do not agree with a system that thrives under one single supreme authority.” Tom raised his eyebrows at this and smirked slightly. “However,” Hermione continued, “I think it was one of the best things to ever happen to the city Rome and to Italy. Rome saw many tyrannical leaders under their empire, but they also saw a great many improvements. Take the emperor Hadrian, for example. He brought Greek architecture back to its old glory, rebuilt the Pantheon and constructed the Temple of Venus and, of course, Hadrian’s wall. An amazing feat then, but also a source of economic growth in the modern era through tourism.”

Tom looked amused by her ramblings, staring at her with that frustrating smirk in place. “And was Hadrian your favorite ruler then, for his considerable advancements?”

“He was one of many that spent his rule improving Rome. I have always liked him for his morale and love of the people. He put so much time and money into his military, training them and respecting them. He was known to sleep in their quarters and wear their uniform like an equal. Hadrian put love of country and men over material things, over the primary duties of emperor.”

“Primary duties should always come first,” interrupted Tom, finishing the last of his butterbeer in a swig. “There can be no country _or_ men without geographic control and peace.”

“You mean war,” snorted Hermione.

“War is not always necessary. I mean military control. Hadrian may have been chummy with his soldiers, but what did they do under his reign? Those years are famous for being quiet of conflict, but yet there was conflict and threats all around him. Hadrian put money and time and trust into his military, and yet he did not exploit them.”

Hermione scoffed. “There are moments of peace everywhere throughout history, Tom, and there needs to be someone to conduct it. Hadrian happened to rule under an era of peace within the empire’s borders.”

“There is no peace when threats still exist existentially. That is simply ignorance, laziness.”

“Rome had plenty of rulers that dictated with their swords first. Hadrian was an emperor of the people. He put their interests first.”

“Their best interest would’ve been protecting them from threatening, outside forces.”

Hermione shook her head at him, but inside she was giddy and thrumming with a comeback. She was enjoying herself immensely, more than she thought she ever could with Tom. They had spoken before and debated various magical theories, but they had been talking history since one in the afternoon, and now it was nearly three.

“Let me guess,” continued Tom, “since you love social advancement so… Is Constantine also one of your favorite historical rulers?”

Hermione blushed pink and crossed her arms defensively, something she was beginning to notice she did quite often around him.

“Constantine reunited a divided empire and created religious and social harmony! He _founded_ Byzantium!”

“No need to yell at me, Hermione,” Tom said playfully, grinning. Hermione blushed and looked around, but no one had taken notice to her heated increase in volume. “I do not disagree that Constantine was a great ruler. He created an entire empire and reclaimed many victories against long-standing enemies of Rome.”

“And we’re back to prioritizing military force,” Hermione grumbled, slouching in her chair and crossing her legs. “Let _me_ guess…you favor Nero or some other madman.”

Tom laughed heartily. “No, Hermione, I do not. I favor Trajan for his great military and territorial expansion, and even Tiberius for choosing diplomacy over conflict when the strategy was needed. But I also regard great kings like Alexander and Hannibal, even Julius Caesar.”

“For their military accomplishments,” said Hermione with a smirk.

Tom inclined his head slightly, still smiling at her expense. “Of course.”

“So, you regard highly the importance of military force, and yet you commend Tiberius for choosing diplomacy over drawing swords? You are a confusing man, Tom Riddle,” she teased.

Tom twisted his empty beer mug in his hands, drummed his ring on the side of the pewter. “Like I said before, Hermione, there is no good or evil. There is power, and there are those that choose to wield it, whether their intentions are believed to be right or wrong. Power comes in more forms than just violence and force. Those are not always the best options to take when it comes to politics and international relations. Those that are weak-minded will cooperate, and smartly so, through peaceful forms of diplomacy, through strategy, rather than forced to kneel under violence and war.”

Hermione was surprised to feel his magic stirring as he talked, and she felt hers reacting in turn. “You seem to be very knowledgeable on the subject of leadership.”

Tom’s eyes shot to hers and narrowed. “Do you not agree with me?”

“Actually, I do,” said Hermione. “I never said war and violence wasn’t necessary. War _is_ necessary, for how else would we defeat our enemies? And if we did not defeat our enemies, we would not live to speak it into history. We are where we are today because of a long history of wars, _and_ diplomacy. You and I would perhaps not be sitting here if Dumbledore had not defeated Grindelwald. The continent and wizarding-Muggle relations would look very different right now if Germany had won the Muggle war, don’t you think?”

Tom smiled silkily and Hermione felt her stomach flutter. “I do,” he said. “I am glad we are on the same page, Hermione.”

~

By the end of the day, Hermione was completely exhausted. Tom had insisted on paying for their lunch, and she had blushed at how personal that _felt_ like, but she knew he was just being chivalrous. They had ventured back into High Street, mingled with the students and watched them begin to trickle back towards Hogwarts with their shopping bags in hand.

When five o’clock rolled around, Tom and Hermione split up to check the town for any lingering students. Hermione popped her head into each shop, ushered a few disappointed third years out of _Honeydukes_ and _Zonko’s,_ and finally met Tom at the end of the path.

“I…I actually enjoyed myself today,” said Hermione as they watched the last of the Hogwarts students move back towards the castle.

Tom looked down at her from his relaxed position against a lamp post. “As did I,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps I was wrong in accusing you of being wary of me, of acting strange recently.”

“Yes, you were,” lied Hermione firmly, because he _needed_ to believe her. This day had been perfect in convincing him of that. She needed to be silently suspicious of him, stealthy and smart while she carried out her plan behind his back. She had to be a better actor than him, or else he would squash her plan like a fly.

“Clearly I just needed to debate Muggle history with you,” said Tom playfully. He held out his arm and Hermione took it without a thought, wrapping her hand around his bicep casually and letting her arm dangle between them. They turned away from the castle, away from the students that were merely black dots now and ventured towards the Apparition point on the other side of the town.

“I’m surprised you knew so much Muggle history,” said Hermione.

“Shouldn’t I know more than you? I had to take a Muggle history class.”

“Oh…that is true,” said Hermione, breathing a laugh. “I just like books.”

“I’ve noticed,” said Tom, smiling down at her. “Perhaps even more than me.”

They then discussed their favorite Hogwarts textbooks until they had left High Street behind and arrived at the Apparition point.

“Well,” said Hermione a little awkwardly as a gust of wind blew over the hill. She dropped her arm to her side, leaving the warmth of _him_ and the swell of muscle in his arm that she hadn’t stopped thinking about the _entire_ walk back, and pulled out her wand. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Tom stepped into her, the grass crunching beneath his feet, and lifted a hand, brushed a curl away from her face and behind her ear. Hermione’s bones were stiff, and her knees were locked but felt weak at the same time, her lips parted in surprise at the gentle gesture. She had a sudden urge to kiss him, to kiss him properly this time, because she had had such a wonderful day with him. And he was so handsome with his wind-swept hair and his high-collared cloak and blank, pale and chiseled features.

“I’ll be at your window,” said Tom quietly, his fingers lingering above her neck for a moment, above a fading yellow mark, before his hand fell to his side. Hermione knew he was referring to their lesson tomorrow, lessons they had to sneak up to her room for, but she was too caught up in staring at him, in memorizing the brush of his fingers on her cheek to even think straight. Everything came rushing back from yesterday: his lips on her neck, whispering at her ear, his teeth nipping and tongue laving, and hand supporting her firmly at her back. Hermione was overwhelmed with emotion for him, and she thought perhaps she _would_ have kissed him, would’ve stepped up to him and closed the distance and wrapped her fingers in his hair. But then Tom stepped away, smirking slightly because he probably knew _exactly_ what he was doing to her, and with a _crack,_ he vanished into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all for being patient! I hope it was worth the wait. I am honestly not too fond of this chapter, or at least the first half of it, but my goals were to build that tension between our favorite characters a bit more, show how Hermione is beginning to decline because of the curse, and get a taste of Tom's political views with some friendly banter! I hope those all came across. 
> 
> I expect the next chapter to take just as long as this did, unfortunately, and the chapters will not be as long as the last two for a while. However, shit is going down in the next one, in which Hermione will make a big mistake, and Tom won't be so forgiving ;) 
> 
> See you next time... xx


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